redheadcarrier | [DDD | 067 | Action] Home Again

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[DDD | 067 | Action] Home Again

Asuka stood just inside of her apartment doorway again, looking a bit worn down. She'd come back from Ohtori and she hadn't really known what she was expecting. Kaworu had cut himself off from the world for a few days, but at least he was talking with her again. Better than the silence she had had to endure (and still wondered about). But she was home again.

Home.

This place was home, she realized. For all of the heartache and misery that tended to follow her around, this was more home than Germany had been. Or Tokyo-3. This was what she thought of. Her own space. Somewhere she could hide from the world if she needed to. Or that's what she'd thought for a long time until Shinji came back into the picture. But she was trying to get past that. Right? Or was she just kidding herself?

She took a step further into the room.

"I'm back."

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For a long moment, she just stares at him. It's only been a few days, but it feels like longer and there he is, just like she remembers him. Because of course he hasn't changed at all. But part of her, perversely, expected him to be different somehow. The same easy smile, the way he holds his hands, the way he looks at her with that strange little look in his eyes. The way he speaks, with a soft, rounded noise. Quiet. She blinks once, fingers clenching as the tension in her unknots and unravels.

He's still here. And that means something. She isn't sure what, but it means something to her and she takes a step forward, then another and then closes the distance, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. Her face ends up buried in the crook of his neck as she breathes in his scent (strange, but familiar; a hint of blood underneath soap and sweat and skin).

"...Kaworu."

There is an uncoiling of something as she moves to him. As she comes to him. As her arms are around him. Before he might blink. Before he might say another word. Before he might think, at all. (Changed and not. The same and not. Weary, but alive. Weary, but warm. And he remembers her voice. Just as clearly as he might have. The stretch of time, suddenly closing in a mere moment. A gulf of some separation reduced to ashes. In the winding of a clock. In the winding down of hours. In the way his body seems to unfurl beneath the swallowed distance. In the way his shoulders slump, by slow degrees. By slow degrees. Though he moves, after a moment. Mind catching up, as it might. As it could.)

And, though it takes a moment, there is a softness in the way his arms settle about her waist. There is a distincter question. A small request to become closer. A gentle voice in the way his hold tightens, by increments. And there are words and not as he silently nestles his nose against her hair. Breathes in. Slow. (Slow. And he has not forgotten the scent of her. Has picked it up, here and there. In the untouched pillows upon their bed. In the lay of the sheets. Rumpled and restless. In the silent folding of clothing. And there is a quiet comfort there. There is quiet foreignness. Old libraries and old dormitories. The turning of pages. Flowers. And he does not chase it off. He does not turn from it. He learns it. Mutely. He learns it. Silently. He knows.)

He knows. (And she is here. And the pressure of absence dwindles like the thaw of ice. It burns away under the warmth of her body. In the missed proximity. And she is here. And his fingers are flex. If gently. His arms settle closer. If gently. Knowing -- )

He had always understood it. (Had always understood. Why it was she had left. Why it is she had wanted to leave. Why it was -- and he murmurs. Sound caught and sound tangled in the thick of her hair. Her name.

Her name, again.)

Edited 2012-06-14 04:27 (UTC)

This is familiar and welcome and brings her back. This is home. This is where she belongs and most importantly, she is wanted. Her shoulders sag with relief as all of the tension and insecurity slowly begin to drain out of her. She isn't totally convinced (not yet), but it's a start. He's still here for her. He isn't going to leave. And he's not going to leave her alone. Her lips twitch into a small, insecure smile and she takes a deep breath and tries to stabilize herself. She pulls back (only slightly) and looks up at him.

"...we should talk."

He knows the shift will inevitably come, before he feels it. Knows the shift will inevitably spread, before he ever sees it. (And he feels the soft way her lips move against his crook of his neck. Feels the slow brush of her hair. Retreating. Knows what words are likely to come, as she grants herself space to look up at him. Too look upon him. To speak, with the slightest settling of her body. The deeper pull of a breath.)

He knows, more than anything. (Why it was she had left. What it was that had troubled her. What it is that must be, still. Where he had drawn some quiet line before him. What tension had existed. When he returned. When he left. When -- and his expression is clear. His expression shows little, but enough. A softer note of understanding. A muffled note of comprehension. Words contained in the slow pull of breath. The mute slouch of his shoulders.

Quiet:)

"... I do know."

For another moment, Asuka stands there and then she brushes past him. But her hand finds his in passing and she tugs him toward the couch and she falls into it without a thought. They might have to talk, but she's going to be held while they do. She's going to reaffirm that she's loved and she's going to soak in the attention for as long as she can. Just to make sure.

"I don't want to lose you over stupid Shinji," Asuka starts, "I don't-"

She pauses and her grip tightens, "...I don't want to be alone anymore. I just- You know what he did to me!"

Her expression shifts and there's bitterness and accusation there again.

"But. Maybe I can try and ignore that. For now."

And it is predictable. (The suddenness of movement. The familiarity of movement. The seeking of his hand. The tug toward some location.) And it is more than just predictable. (It is understood as she pulls him down with her. Upon the couch. His body sinking against the cushions, a known thing. Having spent time here in past days. It is a second thought. As his head rests against the back of it. As he looks to her, quietly. Angled, just slightly. Receptive.)

And there is a softness that surges up within him. A stillness that follows. (And in the palm of her hand, his fingers know her tension. In the palm of her hand, he feels the flurry of passing emotions. Fear or anxiety. Fear or anger. Fear or something quieter. A love that mingles on borders. That aches out something silent. That tells and that needs, and he listens to it. Quietly. Listens to it, as his fingers curl loosely around hers. As she squeezes. Pulls.)

And he knows it. Has always known it. A silent round of consent. (As her words come. Staggered and stumbling. As her words come, earnest. As he recalls the tension that had always lingered there. As he recalls what little he had been told. So many years ago. So long ago. Pieces and parts. Gleaned. Threaded together with delicate hands. With fingers, curling. Carefully. Into the pockets of silence. With fingers, feeling. Out soft contradictions. The pain of deeper living. The pain of deeper regret. And-- he remembers his voice. He remembers the way he had looked at him, then. The way he has looked at him, now. The way he, without single complaint, takes the weight of scorn. Of conflicted emotion. As much as he can. As much as he could. And -- he has always know. Always.)

But, as her words come. As her words continue. As she looks to him, expression flowing from one to the next. He hears and does not hear. He feels and does not feel. For a long moment. For a long pause. What it is that she has shared with him. What it is that she has beaded together. What it is that filters over to him. (Maybe I can try and ignore that. For now.) And, as her words end, he feels the swell of some relief. Feels the swell of some heavy weight. (And he cannot speak. Cannot think to speak. And his expression flickers at the corners. A light and unspeakable thing. A light and tacit thing. And his shoulders slump, slightly. And his eyes lower, slightly. His mouth moving, without sound. Caught off-guard. Caught in the wake of some storm. Finding docking. Finding the break in some gale. And he feels a stifled sound. Bubble up. He feels his lungs tighten. He feels himself speak, his head inclining. He feels something come: )

“… I am able to understand,” and it flows in an exhale. It flows in an inhale. It is soft, somehow. Softer, somehow. Barely audible. (And he feels his hand flex, somehow. A gentle thing. Feels the warmth of her proximity, now. Feels his heart start up a slower beat.

A stiller beat.)

"...alright," Asuka replies and for a moment irritation flashes behind her eyes and her grip tightens on his hand. Almost painful. Her mouth twitches down into a frown, a thin line of disapproval. It seems that every time she's talked to him about feelings or emotions, she runs into a wall. And as much as she wants to just give up and come back to her safe corner, she wants to smash this glass ceiling that Kaworu throws up in front of her time after time after time.

"Talking usually means we both say something about how we feel, Kaworu," And now there's definitely a snap to her voice, "Why can't you just give me a straight answer for once? Or at least talk about how you feel? Or you know, acknowledge something instead of just acknowledging what I say?"

She drops her gaze, staring at her feet for a long moment.

"I can't keep doing this! I can't keep... I can't keep opening myself up like this, you know? Not when I don't get anything back."

And it is something quiet that he builds around himself. Something silent that he builds around himself. (And in that stillness, he can feel the pressure of her hand. And in that stillness, he can feel the hard dig of her nails. The way it murmurs sharply against walls he cannot find their way around. Cannot pull their way around. Cannot scale or claw through, soundly. Without some resistance. Without some deep resistance. Unnamed and unnameable. And he cannot see around it, clearly. He cannot sound the words to her, clearly. Though he hears her. Though he has always heard her. Though he had wanted to lift what he might. Lift what he could. Though --

Don't speak of yourself. Don't speak of more than you'll have to.

And his fingers loosen, slow. His fingers curl into themselves. And he follows her eyes. He follows the fall of her gaze. He slouches, gently. Until he might glance up at her. Until he might see her face. Until: )

"Do you remember what it was I had happened to say?" and in his peripheral vision, there is the red of her hair. There is the shape of her words, unformed: "Such a thing has not come to change, Asuka."

(He would not take it back. He would not take such a statement back. He did not intend to leave her alone. He did not -- and it comes, a little more quietly. A little more softly. With the clearing of expression. With the shuttering of eyes. Lowering. After a moment. He knows what this takes. He has always know what it must take. He -- and he holds both their hearts, as gently as he might.

As gently as he always could.)

"... Even so, thank you. For granting what it is that you might, I happen to mean."

Edited 2012-06-15 03:45 (UTC)

Asuka glanced away again, mouth still set in a frown, brow still furrowed in worry. Shoulders still lifted and tense. She clenches her jaw, relaxes it, and tries to take a breath. She still doesn't know what she's going to do. Or how she's going to get around this. Another breath. "I just-"

The words won't come and that frustrates her more than anything. She can't figure out what to say and she usually knows. So it gnaws at her, picks at the raw emotional wound, the sense of inadequacy.

"I... just need to figure this out. But I need you to help me instead of hiding or being so obtuse!"

Her voice rises for a moment and then she squeezes her eyes shut and lets out another breath, body still speaking of tension and anger. She has to tell him how she feels, even if that part of her brain that governs her says she shouldn't. That she ought to bottle it up until it explodes, but that will make it worse, so much worse, and he needs to know. "It hurts, alright? I don't like it!"

There is a stillness. There is a hesitance. (And it spreads, slow. It spreads, quiet. And he can feel the way it spreads beneath muscle. Skin. Into bone. He can feel the softer stirring of something. Deeper. Can feel the ineffable cold of some ages. Can feel the way each syllable and sound. Burns through. Burns through. Touches upon what has already been greeted with hands that are not his own. Not Asuka's own. That have already been greeted with sharp words and sharper sentences. And he encases himself, behind it. Without thought. Without notion of it. He holds himself behind it. He listens to her, but his body makes no sound.)

His breath is bottled. And he can feel the pressure of his lungs. He can feel the numbness of the eventual and slow exhale. He can feel the foreign taste of words upon his tongue. And his eyes flicker down. His head turns, not away. Not toward. And he can feel the fissure that has been opened, even now. Can see the brightness of something that singes. That razes. Through and through.

Down.

"I am sorry, Asuka."

And the following comes without willingness. Words. It comes without wanting to. The fainter intonation of his voice. Filled with notes he cannot identify. Cannot seek to identify. (And he can feel something slipping. As he coaxes himself to raise his head. As he nudges himself to look to her. As something within his expression settles or stills, nameless.)

And he can feel the balance of his palms fall to the side. He can feel the duller ache, there. Remembering -- and the beat is slow.

"... What is it that you wish to ask of me?"

Asuka's hand tightens on his. Feels the bone and skin and flesh, the rounded edges, the warmth. It's familiar and for a moment it reassures her, because it's Kaworu's. Because here, she matters and she can speak and make herself known and a person again. A part of her aches from this conversation. She's baring herself and baring him and it's all coming together in this confused mixed of emotions and she isn't really sure how to say this or what she wants. She just knows she wants something. A reassurance. A word. A touch. Anything to keep her mind from slipping back into that dark place where she can't tell who she is or even she's even important to anyone any longer.

"I just-"

There's frustration there.

"I just want you to give me a straight answer when we talk, alright? Don't... don't dodge around or be a coward or deflect it! Just... answer me..."

The energy drains out of her one small piece at a time. She remembers asking if she was important and the strange half-answer that she received from him. It'd left her confused and wondering what she was and where she really belonged.

"...that's all I want."

And his hand is moving. Reflexively. His fingers are curling, softly. And he can feel the sharpness of her nails. He can feel each movement. Minutely. Can feel the way she breathes in. Out. Can feel flesh and blood. Bone. (And he can feel the absence of feeling. He can feel the numbness of palms. Can feel the phantom of sensation. Prickling. And he finds himself looking, silent. Discreetly. To affirm his presence there, at all. To affirm his being there, at all.)

And his voice is soft. His voice is softer, still. Coming from within deep silence. A gulf, unable to be bridged. (And no matter how he might cup his hands. No matter how he might hold himself to the sound of his own voice, it has never reached. Entirely. Has never been caught, entirely. And he knows. He knows. He might have, always. Might have -- )

"... All right."

He can feel the energy go. He can feel the way his body shifts, slow. He the fainter lean of something, slipping. The fainter lean of his shoulder. The deepening of a slouch. And he can feel something go, without title. Without definition. Can feel her anger. Her sorrow. Her defeat. Lapping against the shores of his own body. Lapping against the crumbling channels of thought. Of defense. Trenches, dug out. Uncovered. And he feels the rounded sound of her. Feels the tension in her shoulder go. His own, resting. Almost too lightly. Almost too gently.

Almost there and not. At all.

For a moment, there's silence as she listens to him and feels the resignation and the sense of defeat and (for just a moment) she's worried she might have pushed too much (but she can't, it should be about her, it's always about her, it has to be about her, because if it isn't, then she's worthless-) but when his voice comes, she can feel the tension drain away and she feels tired. More tired than she has a right to be, but she's exhausted. She doesn't want to spend any more nights on a borrowed bed, staring at the ceiling as she tries to put the pieces of the fractured, perfect, fake life she's created in Iwatodai back together.

She doesn't want to do it again. She doesn't want to wonder if she's being cast aside. She wants to be able to ignore the voice in her head that tells her that she's nothing and she's being treated like nothing (because it's what she deserves). She lets her shoulders slump and she finally relaxes (sort of) and slumps against Kaworu's side. She swallows and for a moment she's afraid she might cry, but then the moment passes and she's back in control. As much control as she ever has, anyway.

What else is there? What else does she really have?

"Thanks, Kaworu."

Her hand tightens on his again. A reaffirmation that he's here and that she cares about him and that everything, everything is going to be OK.

It's a wonderful lie.

There is a ringing, somewhere. In the whole of his bones. In the depths of small silences. In the tangle of sinew. In the stretch of flesh over muscle. The sway of her hair, as she leans into him. (Leans against body borrowed and body stolen. Leans against time, accumulated. Leans against impostor, against monster. Leans against one who accepts such words for what they are, though he cannot admit it. To her. Cannot admit it. To them. Cannot. But, he holds close sentence and syllable. He holds close the reality. And it feels as though the stirring of naked tundra. Stripped down to roots. And it soaks in, even though she is so close to him, now. Her warmth, remote.)

Remote, and he feels the gradual tilt of his head. Feels the welcome ache of bruising. The dull throb of injury. As he rests it against hers. Still too softly, as if to ask. As if to seek confirmation. As if to answer, without answering, what words murmur up to him. What words come up to him. (As his fingers flex again, even now. As he feels his breath out of sync. With her own. As he feels her fatigue. As he feels the empty reassurance she floods herself with. And he places marker upon, again. Places soft fact upon, again.

And though something fills or flounders. It beats out time with the eventual evening of breathing. The eventual pull of his thoughts. Closing.

Closed.)

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[DDD | 067 | Action] Home Again

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