[Another breath in, this one finally loosening her shoulders, a bracing breath, dragging herself back to someone more human, warm and appreciative, with a sharp edge to the smile she tries to keep mild, mostly succeeds. She takes a step back, opens her eyes to gaze at him. Lets go of his shirt last of all, reluctantly, has to force her clawed fingers to uncurl.]
It's mine.
[And on her head everything that comes with it, more viscerally in some way than it was before, when she accepted it but never reached for it, was always forced into each collision. It is hers in a way it wasn't before, now that she has chosen to hold it; and it was always hers. One blink; a moment of shadows across her face. Something that would be disturbed if she didn't accept it so completely, something that is not shame, not regret, not even sorrow. Not revulsion, not morbid fascination. Something deeper and steadier than any of those.
It is a thing made of terrible, desperate, psychotic, vicious love. It fits her neck.
She walks back to the windowsill, picks up the second light, and her drill, eyes on her task.]
I don't know how it will work out for me in the long run. But I still consider myself very lucky in my gift-givers. Even you.
[Especially you; you harrowing and intimate and absolute, lucky like winning the lottery every day for a year is lucky, lucky like one monkey typing hamlet. He picked the perfect impossible almost unbearable thing.]
[ Spam ]
[Another breath in, this one finally loosening her shoulders, a bracing breath, dragging herself back to someone more human, warm and appreciative, with a sharp edge to the smile she tries to keep mild, mostly succeeds. She takes a step back, opens her eyes to gaze at him. Lets go of his shirt last of all, reluctantly, has to force her clawed fingers to uncurl.]
It's mine.
[And on her head everything that comes with it, more viscerally in some way than it was before, when she accepted it but never reached for it, was always forced into each collision. It is hers in a way it wasn't before, now that she has chosen to hold it; and it was always hers. One blink; a moment of shadows across her face. Something that would be disturbed if she didn't accept it so completely, something that is not shame, not regret, not even sorrow. Not revulsion, not morbid fascination. Something deeper and steadier than any of those.
It is a thing made of terrible, desperate, psychotic, vicious love. It fits her neck.
She walks back to the windowsill, picks up the second light, and her drill, eyes on her task.]
I don't know how it will work out for me in the long run. But I still consider myself very lucky in my gift-givers. Even you.
[Especially you; you harrowing and intimate and absolute, lucky like winning the lottery every day for a year is lucky, lucky like one monkey typing hamlet. He picked the perfect impossible almost unbearable thing.]