eiattu_pride | (no subject)

(no subject)

The door leads straight to his quarters, and Rial has never been so glad.

uh - placeholder, more stuff about kids and dead kids, etc etc, really can't be arsed right now. Basically he's got a sketchpad and he's sitting on the couch trying not to think about it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Plourr never would have made it as a commando. No stealth capability. She makes an impressive amount of noise as she comes in the door, shouting a wordless greeting and dropping an armload of files and items on the first end table that she comes to. Her boots hit the wall with twin thuds, and she heads into the kitchen.

"Rial?" she calls out the kitchen doorway, unsure of whether or not he's here.

Maybe he's just a little tense because he jumps and almost drops the sketchpad before recovering himself, getting up.

"I'm in here."

"Did you have anything in mind for dinner?" she calls, opening the coldbox door and peering at the neat rows of bottles, cans, bowls, containers, and fruit.

"No. Not really."

He sits back down and, after a moment, pulls his feet up and rests his chin on his knees. The sketchbook is on the floor, half-drawn attempts at rendering the child-thing in pencil littering the pages.

Plourr frowns at a container of milk and closes the foor again. That's an unusual response. She makes her way through the doorway and into the living area. Her footsteps stutter just for a second when she sees the way he's sitting, but not enough to be noticeable. She comes around the end of the sofa and sits at his side, resting her hand on his knee.

"Hey," she says brusquely, worriedly. "What's happened?"

Rial glances up when he hears the footsteps, but when she sits he fixes his eyes on her feet and pauses for a long moment.

"Just some weird thing in the bar."

Plourr watches him with clear concern, her face close to his, and after a second or two, she follows his gaze to her feet. From there, it's easy to spot the sketchpad lying abandoned on the floor. She leans over and picks it up.

Rial is a good artist. The childish figure is unfinished in all of the drawings, but several pages of the sketchpad are full of them, and oh gods, that figure-- Shattered forehead, skin shaded gray, eyes dead, bones showing--

Her faces loses color. She looks at him. "Rial, what--?"

Rial still won't look at her.

"He was in the woods."

Plourr stares at Rial, then the drawings, and then she drops the sketchbook and wraps her arm around him. It'll be an awkward side hug unless he moves, but it's all she's got. Nothing she can say to that, nothing she can do but put her arms around him, rest her hand on his cheek, and hold onto him.

She shoots another look at the sketchpad, and flips it over with her foot.

"Dead?" she asks softly.

He shifts until he can free an arm to wrap around her, holding on too tightly but needing it anyway. He takes a long, shuddering breath and nods, very slightly.

"Not alive. But it...it was standing, and it wasn't even there, really."

Plourr is a strong woman. 'Too tight' would require a far greater expenditure of force than is going on right now.

"Alright," she murmurs. "Alright." Not 'it's alright,' because it's not. Just 'alright,' and she rubs his side slowly, resting her set mouth against his shoulder, pressing a kiss there, and she tries not to think of the drawings under her toes.

"No, Plourr, I..."

His voice trails off and he shuts his eyes, can't say what he wants to say, you don't understand. Instead he breathes and thinks and finally, finally glances up.

"I saw it. Him. And he was dead and Plourr, what if our child died? I can't - I can't do this. I can't be a father."

She stiffens and pulls away, enough that she can see him when she talks to him. She is pale, still, and facing him when she says doggedly, "You can do this. You're going to be a good father, Rial Pernon. That's one of the few things about this that I'm sure of. If he dies--" She glances down and shakes her head honestly. "I don't-- I don't know. There's always that risk when you care about somebody." It's a risk that Plourr is always conscious of. But, "You can't dwell on that shit. What ifs and hypotheticals. You just can't. You'll go spaced." She thinks about them sometimes, but she tries not to, too much. And usually, she does pretty well at that.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah. You're right."

Doesn't really make easy but she's right, and he can hold her and move until he's got his head on her shoulder and hope, wish, pray, know that things are gonna be okay.

"Of course I am." She runs her fingers through his hair, carefully smoothing the couple of tangles they meet. "You're going to teach him how to read and write. How to play pranks. You're good with children, my count. I've seen it. All the other kids are going to be jealous of how astral his dad is."

It's unclear when 'it' became unacceptable and she started saying 'he.' Somewhere along the way, she started to accept that this is going to happen. She doesn't notice it, to be honest, or notice that she is referring to a boy.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only