[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

[ex_apocryphas39]

It had been quiet. (It had been more than. And the silent rooms seemed to have taken on a life of their own. Shadows occupied movement. The softer sounds of settling rattled the bones of this home. And he had listened to them. Had awoken to them. Had heard then, in the midst of absent cleaning. The lack of voices, a voice of its own.)

And it had been silent. (In the sweep of sunlight on glossed floors. In the way his feet padded over cool tile. Without sound. In the way he had followed the well-worn paths. To their room (his room). To Shinji's room (the empty room) and back. And back. And -- )

It had been solitude. (And he spoke into the nothingness with no words upon tongue. He spoke into the stillness with no song. Only the faint pooling of water. The melting shift of ice. The flicker of circuitry. His fingers over switches. Turning on. Turning off. The slow and building boil within the kettle. A preparation. For when she returned. For when she wished to return. For when he wished to return. For when, and only when, he was not faced with absoluteness of nothingness. The absoluteness of -- and he listened. He listens.)

Waiting and not upon the couch in the living room. Waiting and not with two empty mugs set before him on the coffee table. Waiting and not with the sore working of his jaw. The new plaster, stuck too close to skin. (He waiting and not for the spread of her presence. The call of her voice. The call of his and -- )

And it blooms outward, like a weight dispersed. (It bursts inward, like a weight sinking. And he hears her, long before he sees her. He feels her, long before he sees her. He feels the slow dawning of her energy. Her life. Flooding each corner of the hall. Flooding each corner of this room. Beyond. Touching on and awakening something quieter. Something that knotted and shied from it. That shuttered itself and welcomed her. All at once. All at once.)

And his body steers him, gently. Before he might know it. Before he is consciously aware of it. He's rising to his feet, silently. He's greeting her, smile open and closed. Soft, as always:

"... Welcome home."