handelaar: (that's a tad embarrassing)
Nederland ([personal profile] handelaar) wrote2012-10-01 04:09 am
Entry tags:

(no subject)

CHARACTERS: attachment issues central club heads of liking your dads and zustertjes a little too much Nederland and Heder
LOCATION: 002 ยป 026
WARNINGS: THEY'RE PROBABLY GONNA BONE JS oh look yep they did
SUMMARY: FEEEEEELINGS HOW DO.
NOTES: No really that's the best summary I got.


Holland-san - I can assure you I am not dead, so please erase such thoughts from your mind this time. While I'm not sure if this has left me at home or another destination, I will endure. Perhaps I can find a way to solve this strange problem of universes.

Be sure to take care.


Lodewijk attempts to catch his attention by nibbling on the corner of the paper, and when the only thing Netherlands does is gently pull it away and keep eating (and reading, over and over again), the fuzzball gives up and curls against his thigh.

He knows he should be doing something more productive - a lot of somethings. Check on the Gardens. Check back with Russia. Check his device to see if Heather bothered to respond.
Check her door, his brain says, but by now he's given up on it. Daily knocking never did a damned thing and it's a little too much to incorporate scheduled disappointment into one's daily routine when the Tranquility hands out enough problems.
Because he knows she's here, somewhere, and that she's been talking to... well, Asato at least. But finding Japan's note instead of Japan just makes him want to shut himself in, pet his rabbit, and eat his goddamn stamppot. Maybe get high, but he's not at that point quite yet. Still a little too shellshocked. It'd be a waste to numb himself while he's still numb.
sweetmotherofgod: (so Heather gets the front page)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-08 10:05 am (UTC)(link)
It's too much.

It's good to be back, of course. A month is too long to keep nobody's company but your own, and definitely too long to be away from hot showers and an actual bed, however utilitarian it might be. But after so long on her own, in the cold and the quiet, the crowd and the noise of the gravity couches sets her teeth on edge. So she makes her greetings and her apologies, picks out almost everyone she's missed. Thanks Murphy for his kindness and heads back to her room, seeking a little peace in the midst of it all.

She very nearly knocks on his door as she passes, but after everything that's happened it's probably a better idea to check in with him via text first. To her own room, then, and her communicator is -

oh

hell.

Full of messages, a lot of them using the kind of language she wouldn't accept from anyone else and none of it doing anything to hide the concern. And just like that, food and sleep shuffle their way back down her list of priorities while she drops what she's doing and heads for his door, knocking on it before she's even thought of what she might say if he answers.
sweetmotherofgod: (Jesus God in Heaven)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-08 07:19 pm (UTC)(link)
He looks terrible, and her mouth is already moving to form a what the hell happened to you (with zero regard for the fact that she is maybe the person on the ship least entitled to ask that) before she sees that change in the look on his face. It stops her dead and she presses her lips together briefly like she's swallowing the words back. Tilts her head instead once she realizes what he's doing, to give better access to a pulse that is strong and steady.

If a little quicker now, under his touch.

If she had prepared something, had a speech or an apology at the ready, she'd have forgotten it. He looks tired, thinner. Worn-out and run-down and after seeing his hair like this she'll probably never make fun of the way he styles it again and none of that stops her from lighting up when she sees him, even if that smile is a little sheepish. Although maybe not as much as it ought to be.

"Hi." She lifts her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, brushes her fingertips over his on the way past. Super subtle. "How've you been?"
sweetmotherofgod: (Default)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-08 09:08 pm (UTC)(link)
"Oh, god." The whole ship? That explains the way he looks, at least. Really any state other than in the brig is doing pretty well, considering. The lack of a returning smile doesn't faze her; she hadn't really expected one. Part of her had expected a lecture or the door closed in her face and she heads into the room, grateful when she gets neither.

"That must have been a nightmare. I'm sorry I wasn't around to help out. Or to... to let you know what was going on." With her, she means, although it probably doesn't need the clarification.
sweetmotherofgod: (God has cursed me I think)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-09 10:13 am (UTC)(link)
The shoes come off with no resistance -- it's his room, after all -- but she frowns when he holds the bowl out to her. It doesn't feel right to show up unannounced, out of nowhere, and take his food on top of it, but he speaks in the kind of brooks-no-argument tone her father had used on the rare occasions he'd taken a hard line on something -- like not smoking inside -- and she has the feeling that resisting will go about as successfully as leaning out her bedroom window did back then. That and the fact that she really is hungry.

So she takes it with thanks, settles on the edge of his bed and forces herself to go slowly so she won't make herself sick, stretching out the time between bites with explanation.

"I only meant to be gone a couple of days. Thought if people realized everything that happened was because of me, some of them might... want revenge, or whatever. It's not that I don't think I owe people an explanation, but the last thing I remember before everything turned to hell is someone attacking me." A shrug, and a mouthful. Despite the fact that he seems to have mashed the hell out of it, it's good. Hot and simple and nourishing. Comfort food.
sweetmotherofgod: (so Heather gets the front page)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-09 07:43 pm (UTC)(link)
His positioning is awkward, maybe, but she likes it. Having him close and being able to see his face, the unexpected but welcome touch. She shakes her head.

"I wasn't thinking like that. I didn't know if people knew, I didn't want to risk it happening again. I just wanted to get away, fast." Not to mention that Asato probably would have offered to come with her, and Alex tended to deal with people he cared about being in trouble by putting himself in the middle of it. Murphy would have just forbidden it and dragged her back if she tried. Anne, maybe, but she's such a pragmatist that Heather's not entirely sure the answer wouldn't have been a bullet in the back of her head. It wouldn't be the first time someone had said they cared about her and then tried that.

"I guess it sorta worked out anyway. The power going must have been a pretty big distraction." She chews on her lip a moment, watching him, weighing up whether she ought to say what she's thinking.

"You were there, weren't you? Before. You... came for me."
sweetmotherofgod: (what are we gonna tell the cops?)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-09 09:05 pm (UTC)(link)
"No, you - that's not really how that place works. Things don't happen until it's ready for them to happen." Until it's made its point and you've fought your way through all of what it wants you to see. Until you've learned whatever lesson it wants you to learn, or you're dead. "Nobody could have gotten me out of there, I don't think. But thank you. For trying."

It's a little ungainly, considering their positions, but she shifts the bowl into one hand so she can lean down towards him, meaning to press a kiss to his cheek.
sweetmotherofgod: (God has cursed me I think)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-10 04:53 am (UTC)(link)
Did he just -- he did. He just air-kissed her. It's... well, cute isn't quite the word she's looking for, but whatever it is it makes her blink in surprised and give a little huff that doesn't quite make it to a laugh, and she turns her attention to giving the contents of the bowl a little enthusiastic and completely unnecessary mashing.

I felt you.

It sounds loaded, cheesy even, and if she could bring herself to say it he'd probably only ask her what she meant, and with a frown, no doubt. So she skips right to the explanation.

"You know when you're sleeping and something happens -- music in the room, or birds singing or something -- and it works its way into your dream? And it's like... there's no bit of you that goes aha, that's real but it still feels different? It was like that. With Murphy, too," she adds hurriedly, before something else occurs to her and she looks up from further mutilating the food.

"You do dream, right?"
sweetmotherofgod: (i have no control over myself)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-10 10:12 am (UTC)(link)
"Oh."

It's a useless little non-word, closer to a sigh. He's not the first person on board to tell her he doesn't dream and that's sad enough, but somehow the clarification makes it sadder. Sometimes, in the middle of the night or the silence of early morning, when she wakes in a cold sweat with her heart pounding and a scream stuck in her throat, all that keeps her together is being able to tell herself it was only a dream. She looks at him sitting on the floor looking years younger with the fluffy corona of his hair around his face, dressed in clothes that a month ago would have made her crazy to get him out of them but now just sort of emphasize that he's lost - losing? - weight, hears that he doesn't even have that small comfort, and she can't think of a damn thing to say.

She reaches for him instead. Stretches fingers out to brush over the line of his jaw, not intended to trace those new scars but headed there anyway. What she really wants is to push his hair back out of his face, get a clear view of his eyes and make him look more like the him she's used to, but it's a liberty she doesn't dare take. Half because she's concerned it would make him mad, and half because if it didn't her worry would swell up and swallow her whole.
sweetmotherofgod: (in shadow)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-10 07:44 pm (UTC)(link)
"I just forget how different you are, sometimes." To a normal person -- a citizen, she guesses -- or to anyone else she's ever met.

The amount of time for which it's appropriate to let her hand linger on his face has probably passed, but she doesn't move it. She frowns, fingertips tracing the scars. Thinking she probably knows when he got them and that it's a pointless thing to feel guilty over, but feeling it anyway.

"These are new," she says, finally. "You look like hell. You've gotta take better care of yourself, the gardens are going to be a fucking mess if we lose you." And right on the heels of that, like the two thoughts are related rather than it just being yet another a case her being unable to hide what she's really thinking:

"I wish I could have kept you out of it."

Stupid, and selfish -- if she could do that, why not keep everybody out of it? Why not keep it from happening at all? And what if he'd ended up trapped and mad like Lisa? -- but she's starting to see that expecting her feelings about him to make any sort of sense or fit into her rules is a wasted effort.
sweetmotherofgod: (Default)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-11 03:24 am (UTC)(link)
Wait, he says, and she makes a face. Not because of the instruction, but because the fact that he feels the need to tell her makes her realize just how transparent she's being. She doesn't care for more than a second, though. When he speaks again, the relief is clear on her face. He can blame her for going missing; it was stupid, it was her fault and she'll wear it, but here, sitting with him, it's more important than she realized that he knows she'd have him safe.

She twists for face him when he settles. Pinches the fabric of his shirt between thumb and forefinger like she's going to comment on it before she give up on the pretense and just settles her hand over his hip. If he can read her worry that easily, there's no point in trying to hide it. Straight to the point, then.

"What happened to you, and what can I do?"
sweetmotherofgod: (i have no control over myself)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-11 09:39 am (UTC)(link)
"After," she says, too fast, because she selfishly doesn't want to hear what he might have seen or gone through in that place. Not when she knows the kinds of things it shows people. In any case, everything she knows about it tells her that now he's out it can't touch him. That doesn't make it okay, but it does make it a problem she can't try to fix. And hell, after everything she told him about it he was probably better prepared than anyone on board who hadn't already been there.

"This -" she'd gesture to him and the state he's in, but she's got one hand cradling a rapidly-cooling bowl in her lap, and the one that's on his hip isn't leaving until he moves it - "isn't just your everyday 'fuck all these assholes camping in my garden' stress."
sweetmotherofgod: (Default)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-11 10:12 pm (UTC)(link)
That's

a lot. Her frown is fixed as she listens to him, deepens into something thick with concern when he mentions Asato but there's no pause for her to ask about it. Masks pricks her attention too, she'd all but forgotten about the one that was waiting on her door as soon as she saw him, and then he says when I miss someone and before she can react to that, he's gesturing.

She puts the bowl down, picks up the note, and reads just enough of it to get the idea. There's s sound, a sad little catch of sympathy in the back of her throat, and he'll probably hate that but... well. It brings that sick feeling back to her (you had time to write a goddamn letter but not time to say goodbye?), and she puts the note down as carefully as if it might break.

"Yeah." It's all she can think to say. Curls her fingers, gentle pressure from the hand that's resting on him, and nods. "Whatever you need."
sweetmotherofgod: (God has cursed me I think)

[personal profile] sweetmotherofgod 2012-11-11 11:41 pm (UTC)(link)
That look, that tone of voice. She knows them, she thinks, because she's used them herself when people were offering her something she didn't think she deserved. That's what makes her bold enough to turn her hand palm-up as his comes down, to catch it and squeeze, and it doesn't occur to her how messed-up it is for that to feel like the risky move here.

"You can't even take care of yourself," she chides, and it's only half a joke. Too much sincerity in her attempt at their old bickering banter for it to be altogether convincing as she shifts and leans in close. If she thinks too hard on what she's doing or what she really means she'll only mess it up. He hasn't pushed her away yet and she doesn't want to give him the opportunity by hesitating, so she clings to the safe familiarity of needling at him even as she reaches out. Finishes the thought only when her lips are close enough to brush his cheek as she speaks.

"You don't get to tell me what to do."

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