. .. IC Contact | Duplicity .. .

[konstant]

                                                                 

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[konstant]

He's heard a lot of things coming out of... whatever this was. The guards talk when they think no one is listening, and they're usually grateful that whatever is happening to the LIERs isn't happening to the natives. Some go so far as to openly state they deserve it.

So he leads her up to the bedroom, but he waits to see if she'll balk at him joining her, at undressing in front of him. He's not here to make her uncomfortable. He's here to make sure she's alright.

But she doesn't hesitate and, after a moment, he pulls his shirt off again too. He steps out of the rest of what he pulled on at the Zoo, and shifts over beside her, head tipped to look her over and make sure of her answer from earlier.

[thecanarylives]

There's no balking from her. Just a numb undressing, as if she's simply going through the motions, no heat, no anticipation in it.

His gaze seeks out her own and she meets it with weariness, with the hollow resolve of someone who's just putting one foot in front of another. Because isn't that what they do, after all this time? Bear it, over and over again?

She takes his hand and pulls him into the shower, closing her eyes a moment as she lets the scalding heat wash over her.

[konstant]

Every living creature knows what it is, if they do in fact know, to just get through the day, to keep putting one foot in front of the other. K is not exempt from this, and it aches to see the way she's not even really paying attention, the way it's muscle memory more than anything to move.

He allows himself to be pulled in, and after a moment eases into position under the spray while it's still hot, taking the brunt while he reaches back to adjust it. When it's a bit more reasonable - still hot, but not at risk of burning someone clearly sunken into numbness - he turns them again so they're face to face, standing sidelong under the spray.

He holds up the washcloth and the soap in silent question.

[thecanarylives]

The small chamber fills quickly with steam, engulfing them both in a haze that Sara feels all too at home in. She steps into him, giving the faintest of nods to the soap before she slips her arms around his middle, her forehead resting against the broad expanse of his chest.

"M'glad you're here," she mutters softly below the hiss of the water.

[konstant]

"I'm not going anywhere," he answers, which may not always be true, which may not have been true in the past, but here and now it is. Here and now he's got her, and he hooks his arms around her, too, for these moments.

He kisses her hair, gentle, and rubs his fingertips over the low of her back, and just holds onto her while the water falls down over them.

[thecanarylives]

She doesn’t quite believe it, but that much doesn’t really matter to her at the moment. He’s here now, strong and steady and warm against her, and she tightens her grip around him, as if she could keep him here by sheer will.

Eyes fluttering closed, she sinks into the comfort of him, the brush of his touch. A shudder of a sigh escapes her, hitched in the back of her throat.

[konstant]

K could, if asked, say exactly how long they stand there like that; he's capable of keeping track of it, but he doesn't just now, at least not consciously. He just holds her, and lets her hold onto him, until the water starts to run cold.

He reaches then to turn it off and says, "Come lay down with me."

[thecanarylives]

She’s jarred out of her thoughts by the chill of the water, blinking out of her daze and glancing up at him. Nodding at his words, she drags the shower door open to grab them a towel, swiping it across the broad expanse of his chest, his shoulders, her gaze distant, her movements methodical.

[konstant]

K stands still for her, lets her do whatever it is she needs to do with him, watching.

When he takes the towel from her, he returns the favor, but it's anything but mechanical, anything but methodical. He pulls the fabric along her skin and muscles like a sculptor teasing the curves and definition out of clay, like a carpenter checking a level or a potter for cracks.

He is careful, not as if she is breakable and fragile, but as though she is precious. To him, specifically, she is precious.

[thecanarylives]

She shifts under the intensity of that gaze - at the vulnerability that washes over her, unsure herself of what exactly he sees. All those broken pieces under a microscope for him to sift through.

She doesn't meet his gaze as she climbs out of the shower, as she pads barefoot out of the bathroom and towards the bed.

"You wanted to talk," she says finally, grabbing an oversized t-shirt from her drawer.

[konstant]

"I do."

He doesn't try to keep her gaze when she looks away. They're her secrets to hide or offer, even if he does keep watching her nonetheless. He knows her well enough these days he could make up the difference if he tried.

He lets her keep the shield of herself up for now though. Instead, he wraps the towel around his waist, tucks it so it'll hold, and follows after her.

He catches one side of the shirt as she yanks it out, a moment away from holding it out for her to help pull it over her head.

"I don't want you to lock yourself away with all of this like you always do."