[DDD | 067 | Action] Home Again

[redheadcarrier]

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."

Comments

[redheadcarrier]

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."

[ex_apocryphas39]

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.

[redheadcarrier]

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.

[ex_apocryphas39]

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.)