[Having ranked now as the higher in standing, Girl gives her brother a sniff- her nose touches his ruff. And that's as far as her investigation of him will go.
Girls are just like that sometimes, Tim figures, because he watches the two scenes play out concurrently from where he's standing. He peels his gloves off and sheds his big jacket; Kate is silent for a while but she isn't quiet. Not to someone who is looking for the signs of-- and there it is, that wretched thing.
Heartbreak. Grief.
Tim finds his mouth go dry, even when he has his mouth shape the name: Goodsir...?
No-- but yes, actually, and more likely than Tim would want to think. He had vomited when he had (not) found Damian. And now, Tim feels his legs grow weak again. There's no tremor to his hands that isn't there because of the cold but Tim feels wrong for knowing it exists anyway. And then, very predictably, he feels wrong for feeling wrong because of it. Like something broken, he now thinks there should be a level of stoicism when facing the inevitable of--]
Kate, I'm going to sit next to you.
[He doesn't know if it is or isn't okay, to take space up on her bed. He remembers that one time-- she had a nosebleed-- the cot at the Community Center. How scared she had been, believing he hadn't seen. But it's not a thing that Tim can control, not within her. Not now.
He moves light despite the heaviness- he's not supposed to exist in this room and especially not in this proximity. Then he sits- to Kate's left, elbows on his knees, and he looks to the Dog.
Dog, who lost her person and who doesn't know how not to be a wild wolf. She turns her head and looks up. Past Tim. Toward Kate.
She knows loss, too.
He doesn't point out that, well, yes. The Victorians are all probably dead.
Stunned at losing a friend, he opens and closes his right hand.] He set my arm when it was broken. We spoke a few times. In the church. [Like it helps him make his case that-] I'm sorry.
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Girls are just like that sometimes, Tim figures, because he watches the two scenes play out concurrently from where he's standing. He peels his gloves off and sheds his big jacket; Kate is silent for a while but she isn't quiet. Not to someone who is looking for the signs of-- and there it is, that wretched thing.
Heartbreak. Grief.
Tim finds his mouth go dry, even when he has his mouth shape the name: Goodsir...?
No-- but yes, actually, and more likely than Tim would want to think. He had vomited when he had (not) found Damian. And now, Tim feels his legs grow weak again. There's no tremor to his hands that isn't there because of the cold but Tim feels wrong for knowing it exists anyway. And then, very predictably, he feels wrong for feeling wrong because of it. Like something broken, he now thinks there should be a level of stoicism when facing the inevitable of--]
Kate, I'm going to sit next to you.
[He doesn't know if it is or isn't okay, to take space up on her bed. He remembers that one time-- she had a nosebleed-- the cot at the Community Center. How scared she had been, believing he hadn't seen. But it's not a thing that Tim can control, not within her. Not now.
He moves light despite the heaviness- he's not supposed to exist in this room and especially not in this proximity. Then he sits- to Kate's left, elbows on his knees, and he looks to the Dog.
Dog, who lost her person and who doesn't know how not to be a wild wolf. She turns her head and looks up. Past Tim. Toward Kate.
She knows loss, too.
He doesn't point out that, well, yes. The Victorians are all probably dead.
Stunned at losing a friend, he opens and closes his right hand.] He set my arm when it was broken. We spoke a few times. In the church. [Like it helps him make his case that-] I'm sorry.