[ it's late โ or what constitutes as late on this station โ by the time itachi hears a gentle knock on his door. clarice stands on the other side; her shoulders are hunched and arms are crossed in an instinctive attempt to withdraw into herself... yet here she is. purposefully seeking him out. she knows enough about his sleeping habits now to know he's likely awake but she keeps her knock quiet anyway, to give him the option of pretending he hadn't heard it. after all, just because he's awake doesn't mean he'd appreciate the company. still, she finds herself desperate enough for it to risk the dismissal.
yet when the door opens, she hesitates. ]
Hey. [ shit, she didn't think far enough ahead for a reason for being here. her mind scrambles. ] You got anything to read?
๏ผ she is correct in that he was not sleeping, but he had been... resting, after a fashion. laying on the futon that shang-chi had brought for him, studying the ceiling in the near-dark, with only the faint artificial glow from the running lights to make out details.
it is still a marvel to him, months later, that he can see more than a few inches in front of his face.
he rises at the knock, comes to the door. there is the distinctive ting of a tripwire being disarmed, and then the door slides open. he is standing there with an oversized spongebob shirt slipping down off one shoulder and a pair of truly ugly orange shorts, but then he has never much cared for what he wears, and far less so when he's in the privacy of his own room. they were both available and comfortable, so here he is.
when he sees her standing in the hallway, he says nothing immediately, simply steps back to allow her into the room. there is not much personality to it — the futon on the floor is the aberration, the raised bed is neatly kempt with folded covers. his desk is clear, the shelf above it holds numerous books. there is a small box for calligraphy brushes, and a pot of ink. but nothing else is displayed — for all intents and purposes it could just as easily be unoccupied. ๏ผ
[ clarice is still paused by the doorway even as he steps aside, her eyes falling slowly over his attire. ]
...I'm sure your tastes are fine.
[ no jury in the world would believe her, but it's not like she's actually here for a book anyway.
eventually she steps in, takes a panning look around. it's a similar space to the room she's currently boarded in, though with some obvious personal touches that she's lacking what with being so new. the shelf of books gets a cursory glance, the futon less so. ]
๏ผ he shuts the door behind her, but notably does not redo the tripwire. it would only serve to make her feel trapped, and he hardly thinks she is here to cause him harm.
instead, he crosses back to the futon and sinks gracefully down into a cross-legged position on it. ๏ผ
No. I am simply unused to them. I do not find it comfortable.
[ she watches him for a moment, before sliding her gaze back to the neatly-made bed. ]
No wonder you didn't sleep much on the train.
[ there is a chair by the desk, but she opts for the bed instead to perch on, figuring if it doesn't get used it's the more polite option. at least she doesn't cross her own legs and put her shoes on the sheets?
she eyes the numerous amount of traps and locks on his door, brows furrowing. ]
[ she leans back on the bed, sliding her palms across the neat lines of the tucked-in sheets. ]
I couldn't sleep. I figured I'd give the kitchens a break, so here I am. [ she'd caught a peek at the titles on his shelves — keeping up the pretense of wanting to read any of them would have been more work than the payoff was worth. ] What were you doing?
๏ผ it's as good an answer as any, though it is perhaps a touch more truthful than what he would tell most others. that is the one downside to the time they have between missions — as much as he prefers solitude, no good comes of being alone with his thoughts. ๏ผ
๏ผ his gaze on her is intent for the span of a few heartbeats, and then it cuts away to an inkwell on his desk, his neat supply of brushes laid out. the question is not quite a fracture along the fault-lines of his privacy — he would have lied if he had truly been against her prying into it, but there are limits to his tolerance of such a thing. ๏ผ
Yes. I suppose it is natural that one dwell on their home, when they have been apart from it now nearer a year than not.
๏ผ eight months is a long time, when one comes from a place where the world can change in a moment. somehow, impossibly, he has crammed more living into these months than in the years that preceded them. ๏ผ
๏ผ he counts the extra month in badrock, even though the ximilia's calendars seemed not to. it is still, to him, time lived. ๏ผ
And I do not know. They do not appear to communicate clearly the level of — ๏ผ his mouth twists, unhappy. ๏ผ hm, 'progress' one has made. I will continue on this path until the end.
Whenever that end will be, because none of us have any way of knowing how much farther we've got to go. Or if our steps thus far have made any difference.
[ a pause and then a deep sigh before she plops herself down on his bed, only just narrowly missing banging her head against the metal wall beside it. ]
I don't. There is no reason to trust it until we have proof it will work.
๏ผ there's a slight pause, a sort of unspoken however that hovers in the air. then: ๏ผ
I am dead in my world. This time is already borrowed. If what we have been told is true, it is something gained. If it happens that this is all a false hope, I have lost nothing.
[ it chills her to hear it โ but more that he can speak of it so casually, than speaking it all. it should be reassuring, in a way. she's here to bring her foster family back from the dead after all... knowing that the ximilia has the ability to do it is...
something.
it's enough to make her finally give voice to the thing she's been too afraid to say out loud. ]
Do you ever wonder about staying here, even after it's all over?
๏ผ there's no hesitation — it is a thing said definitively, unconcerned. his goal has always been to finish his work here, and then return to jลdo. living holds no allure for him, nothing tethers him to this world. ๏ผ
For some, that may be an option. But I do not wish to be anywhere else than my home.
[ clarice, though. clarice hesitates. it's nice, she thinks. that even in death, he still has a place he can call home.
there's nothing waiting for her back in her world. ]
Yeah... [ there's a pointedly casual lilt to her tone — a stark contrast to the quiet and care her words had had just moments earlier. ] All this metal and humming's bound to get real old real fast.
๏ผ he gives her a sidelong glance, unfettered by open curiosity but nevertheless inquisitive. had she hoped his answer would be different?
(is hers?) ๏ผ
One becomes accustomed to it, I imagine, with time.
๏ผ in lieu of sitting idle, he rises to begin a pot of tea. something non-caffeinated, one of the things he has squirrelled away from viveca's supply drops. he never takes the whole of anything, but he does have a decent, well-organized supply of various things in one drawer, which he thumbs through idly. ๏ผ
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action
yet when the door opens, she hesitates. ]
Hey. [ shit, she didn't think far enough ahead for a reason for being here. her mind scrambles. ] You got anything to read?
no subject
it is still a marvel to him, months later, that he can see more than a few inches in front of his face.
he rises at the knock, comes to the door. there is the distinctive ting of a tripwire being disarmed, and then the door slides open. he is standing there with an oversized spongebob shirt slipping down off one shoulder and a pair of truly ugly orange shorts, but then he has never much cared for what he wears, and far less so when he's in the privacy of his own room. they were both available and comfortable, so here he is.
when he sees her standing in the hallway, he says nothing immediately, simply steps back to allow her into the room. there is not much personality to it — the futon on the floor is the aberration, the raised bed is neatly kempt with folded covers. his desk is clear, the shelf above it holds numerous books. there is a small box for calligraphy brushes, and a pot of ink. but nothing else is displayed — for all intents and purposes it could just as easily be unoccupied. ๏ผ
Yes. Though what I have is a matter of taste.
no subject
...I'm sure your tastes are fine.
[ no jury in the world would believe her, but it's not like she's actually here for a book anyway.
eventually she steps in, takes a panning look around. it's a similar space to the room she's currently boarded in, though with some obvious personal touches that she's lacking what with being so new. the shelf of books gets a cursory glance, the futon less so. ]
Something wrong with your bed?
no subject
instead, he crosses back to the futon and sinks gracefully down into a cross-legged position on it. ๏ผ
No. I am simply unused to them. I do not find it comfortable.
no subject
No wonder you didn't sleep much on the train.
[ there is a chair by the desk, but she opts for the bed instead to perch on, figuring if it doesn't get used it's the more polite option. at least she doesn't cross her own legs and put her shoes on the sheets?
she eyes the numerous amount of traps and locks on his door, brows furrowing. ]
Did I disturb you?
no subject
If you did, do you feel I would have opened the door?
๏ผ firm, resounding no. he has absolutely let people stand outside his door knocking for his attention until they tired of it and left. ๏ผ
no subject
We both know you can't say no to me.
[ she leans back on the bed, sliding her palms across the neat lines of the tucked-in sheets. ]
I couldn't sleep. I figured I'd give the kitchens a break, so here I am. [ she'd caught a peek at the titles on his shelves — keeping up the pretense of wanting to read any of them would have been more work than the payoff was worth. ] What were you doing?
no subject
๏ผ it's as good an answer as any, though it is perhaps a touch more truthful than what he would tell most others. that is the one downside to the time they have between missions — as much as he prefers solitude, no good comes of being alone with his thoughts. ๏ผ
no subject
[ there's a softness to her tone, an awareness that even asking is an intrusion. ]
no subject
Yes. I suppose it is natural that one dwell on their home, when they have been apart from it now nearer a year than not.
๏ผ eight months is a long time, when one comes from a place where the world can change in a moment. somehow, impossibly, he has crammed more living into these months than in the years that preceded them. ๏ผ
no subject
[ there's an odd tone to clarice's voice โ incredulous, perhaps. maybe even denial. ]
How close are you to getting your regret undone?
no subject
๏ผ he counts the extra month in badrock, even though the ximilia's calendars seemed not to. it is still, to him, time lived. ๏ผ
And I do not know. They do not appear to communicate clearly the level of — ๏ผ his mouth twists, unhappy. ๏ผ hm, 'progress' one has made. I will continue on this path until the end.
no subject
[ a pause and then a deep sigh before she plops herself down on his bed, only just narrowly missing banging her head against the metal wall beside it. ]
What makes you trust any of this?
no subject
๏ผ there's a slight pause, a sort of unspoken however that hovers in the air. then: ๏ผ
I am dead in my world. This time is already borrowed. If what we have been told is true, it is something gained. If it happens that this is all a false hope, I have lost nothing.
no subject
something.
it's enough to make her finally give voice to the thing she's been too afraid to say out loud. ]
Do you ever wonder about staying here, even after it's all over?
cw: suicidality
๏ผ there's no hesitation — it is a thing said definitively, unconcerned. his goal has always been to finish his work here, and then return to jลdo. living holds no allure for him, nothing tethers him to this world. ๏ผ
For some, that may be an option. But I do not wish to be anywhere else than my home.
no subject
there's nothing waiting for her back in her world. ]
Yeah... [ there's a pointedly casual lilt to her tone — a stark contrast to the quiet and care her words had had just moments earlier. ] All this metal and humming's bound to get real old real fast.
no subject
(is hers?) ๏ผ
One becomes accustomed to it, I imagine, with time.
๏ผ in lieu of sitting idle, he rises to begin a pot of tea. something non-caffeinated, one of the things he has squirrelled away from viveca's supply drops. he never takes the whole of anything, but he does have a decent, well-organized supply of various things in one drawer, which he thumbs through idly. ๏ผ
Do you? Wonder about staying here.