joinhands | 15S R4 Week 2 Saturday Night

You have to do it yourself, hm?

[He knows on some quiet distant level that he shouldn't find that smile in its context so... everything, really. Shouldn't find it encouraging, but he does. Shouldn't find it enchanting, but he's so thoroughly enchanted he might as well be a carnation in a field, waiting for her to speak.]

At least there are two of us. Three, perhaps, Jun pointed out the issue with the note. I wish I could trust more of them, but even Miss Millstein....

If I ever once let girls like her get me down, I wouldn't be here today.

[The teeth in her mouth sharpen her words into a sense quite literal.]

Well, having even a handful of people respect me in any way is new, so I guess I should count my blessings. [But...]

[There is something unspoken hanging after that statement and even without bending the wall between narration and actions taken, it is obvious.

Eric hangs his head, his hair, even as bedraggled as it is, falling to hide most of his face.]

It's hard to see any blessings at all in a place like this, isn't it? That you're alive, yes, I can see that. That we've met. But it's... God, they couldn't have been less rational if they'd all brought pitchforks and torches.

[A subtle tension in Krone's eyes and fingertips hints at her interest in brushing that golden curtain away. Whether he'll be able to see that, she actually doesn't know.]

Well, they won't. [Matter-of-factly.] Calling them all weak in mind and body would be unfair, but even the ones with combat experience have clearly been ensconced in platoons and control rooms much of the time.

[Her eyes narrow again.]

Erkens really had me thinking you were easily scared enough to relocate the board games from here.

[His eyes are downcast, at first, and so he does miss that. When she speaks of combat experience, he glances up, and he actually laughs when she mentions Franciscus.]

Scared? Hardly. It is just... it is distasteful, to me, to think of playing games with strangers' blood on the apparatus in plain sight. Even as cheery as that fellow who takes the paper spiders is.

And... it's funny, isn't it, how those who've never fought alone become so brave when they've a mob at their back.

Edited 2019-05-05 19:58 (UTC)

[At the word brave, a joyless smirk cracks across her face like a whip.] "I'm not a brave man." [Given Krone's meticulousness in everything else, it's surprising how bad she is at specifically impersonating Osomatsu's voice - defaulting to a bass tone when in hindsight baritone was obviously a better match. In any case, it's enough to get her strings high again.] Don't worry, though, it's easy to fix! Just give him knives and a woman in manacles!

[She sighs. Her eyes light on the silver pitcher elsewhere in the room.]

I pity Miss Millstein more than anything else. The first time she doesn't get exactly what she wants when she wants it, she just tries to power through the wall. Exactly like what Mrs. Parham was doing the day we first arrived. It's not wrong to recoil from the eggs, per se, but you'd think they could also resist using these newfound powers to harm their comrades.

Grant power to those who have never had it, and the weakest of character among them will use it to play at being strong in the way a child pulling wings from insects pretends he's a giant. That she did that when she is no stranger to power beyond the ordinary physical sort is...

[Well, there's the reason she's no longer getting called "Emma".

The first sentence he said had the slightly singsong rhythm of a lesson taught until it became a belief. It isn't that he's seen this before, but he was warned of it, and he fell prey to the same sort of lazily cruel superiority complex, once. The memory does bring a mortified blush to his face, tinting a self-recriminating bitter scowl.]

At the very least I sought out monsters to fight, and "bad men"... I was very simple in my morals, at fifteen. But I only fought John the once, and he showed me what a fool I'd been to think I could prove myself better than everyone by showing off and picking fights.

[His little Sunday school adage appeals to Krone, apparently. She squeezes her legs more tight and cozy, as her smile crinkles up underneath her eyes. The expression falters for a minute in that grim pause, as her hand hovers over her throat. Krone manages to keep clinging to his words. It's more convenient for her, in many ways, if Eric talks about himself.]

...so you don't fight him anymore? [She can't remember if he's dropped the name before, but if nothing else there's obvious familiarity in his voice. Warmth. ...and the air near the iron maiden is cold. Maybe the both of them will be comforted.] Tell me more about him.

[Eric smiles, and gives up on fighting the grin that tentatively stumbles onto his face after an instant. He shakes his head.]

From that point on, it was as though I'd never had that... lapse of madness. We were almost brothers, more than that if I'm honest. I swore to protect him when we were both very young, I'd promised his father, and... for as long as I could, I did.

[The grin falls back, becoming a somewhat bittersweet smile.]

He is strong, and kind, and... very American, in the best of ways. Very direct in his speech, slow to anger, quick to make friends. Absolutely the greatest man to have at your back in a fight. [And yet.]

There's no substitute for another pair of eyes.

[Krone's are twinkling. Like they often are around Eric.]

I had someone like what you're talking about once. A sort of older sister. Cecil... [Krone closes her eyes.] Franklin.

[She exhales. As if everything is coming back in vivid color.]

Seemed to be prepared for everything. Never complained. Always smiling. Except in the face of evil.

[Krone opens her eyes and lets down her legs, hands in her lap.]

That might have seemed like a tangent, I just mean to say... Alliances like that are truly beautiful. There's no need to be ashamed of it.

[Her lips quirk.]

And frankly, your resemblance to Cecil is downright uncanny. I thought if you didn't know it wouldn't be fair.

Edited (for future readers.) 2019-05-07 22:21 (UTC)

["There's no need to be ashamed of it."

Does Krone know, then? Does she know, and with that smile is she hinting that she is the same?! It isn't the kind of thing one can come right out and ask, Eric knows that as much as he knows that falling means hitting the ground at some point, knows it like he knows he can't breathe underwater.

But he wants to ask. He wants to, but refuses to - this is all still too new, too fragile to take such a risk. Let her think it's a thoroughly exhausted and more than slightly pathetic response to a compliment, if he's trembling. He isn't sure that he is, at least. It may just be the possibility of being seen and not judged has his head ringing.]

It's not often that I feel I'm being genuinely praised, being compared to a woman - God, forgive me, I've said that terribly! It isn't often that I'm compared to a woman who touched someone's life and she wouldn't be insulted by such a comparison. I hope I can live up to her.

[This is not the first time he has felt like a blindly fumbling boy around Krone, but it's the first time he's babbled out his feelings so clumsily as all that. He can't help but blush - it comes with the territory of feeling lost and saying things he meant in words that meant the opposite.]

[Krone cycles through various degrees of gently amused at his awkwkardness about the entire (what he'd undoubtedly call the) fairer sex but when he comes out with that last desperate vow she's close to cracking up. Christ, he's a pretty mess, rose wine spilled over a renaissance painting. Eric always looks to be worshipping something, like those Catholics in modern France who can't bring themselves to mention it in company anymore. She feels bad dismissing his efforts, really she does, so as she finally bursts out laughing she flaps up both her hands in the air. No, I'm not armed! It's the longest he ever heard her laugh, just plain bending over like she can't breathe.]

It's just that—you can't call her a woman. She was only fourteen.

[Wait, so if Cecil was the older one, that means Krone...?!

Then she stands up as she'd have to do to hang him up on the wall.] You will, though. I'll hold you to it. OK, Eric?

Edited (words twice) 2019-05-08 03:09 (UTC)

[He isn't sure what he's done to earn that laughter, but it's also obvious enough that it isn't meant cruelly. Such a sound couldn't be.

And then it's clear. She fell when she was young, too, though she was the younger, and younger than he had been by far... He brushes away thoughts of John at fifteen, already tall and broad-shouldered as Theseus, as Patroclus. Those are memories he doesn't want this place to steal.

Her hands seem to frame him as though she's the sculptor and he the model whose imitated form could scandalize a generation of critics who needed to be. (He has given it thought, of course - he'd portray her as Minerva, in dark bronze that would evoke well the richness of her skin and hair. Minerva, but not sedate, no, a goddess of wisdom and war.) He nods - for a moment there's no other response he can make. She trusts him to be the best that he can.]

Of course. We should both do our best, shouldn't we?

15S R4 Week 2 Saturday Night

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TPN novel spoilers

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