[He lets her, the parts of his mind that are ever his own trusting her in ways that his most deeply conditioned reflexes haven't yet learned; trusting her with the untried parts of himself that have been gaining strength here, that he has been discovering along with the rest of himself, is almost easy. Almost because he barely has them to himself.
She misses her mother, and he misses his unit. It's distinct, for once, from missing Manticore: he knew each of them by the way they moved, their smell, the sound of their breathing. He would have been able to pick his brothers and sisters out of a lineup of their twinned clones, he is sure of it. And he will never see them again, by his own choice.
His fingers are twisted into the fabric of her robe by the time the tears finally stop, by the time he's breathing in and out without the suffocating weight of tears, by the time he's relaxing again. He feels tired, still, but in a better way. As if pressure has been relieved, somehow, as if when the thick feeling in his throat recedes he will be able to breathe again.
If it were anyone else he might feel embarrassed, or shamed; but it is Anya. He shifts a little to be able to take her weight a bit more onto him if necessary, to take his weight back a little, but makes no move to get up or to pull away. He does not lift his head from her shoulder.]
I love you. [It's quiet, and simple, and warm; he is a man that tries to take very little for granted. He says it now and remembers a time when he wouldn't have said it at all, and savors that security. Savors that he not only gets to know it for truth, but that he gets to say it, and he gets to be heard. For now, it is enough.]
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She misses her mother, and he misses his unit. It's distinct, for once, from missing Manticore: he knew each of them by the way they moved, their smell, the sound of their breathing. He would have been able to pick his brothers and sisters out of a lineup of their twinned clones, he is sure of it. And he will never see them again, by his own choice.
His fingers are twisted into the fabric of her robe by the time the tears finally stop, by the time he's breathing in and out without the suffocating weight of tears, by the time he's relaxing again. He feels tired, still, but in a better way. As if pressure has been relieved, somehow, as if when the thick feeling in his throat recedes he will be able to breathe again.
If it were anyone else he might feel embarrassed, or shamed; but it is Anya. He shifts a little to be able to take her weight a bit more onto him if necessary, to take his weight back a little, but makes no move to get up or to pull away. He does not lift his head from her shoulder.]
I love you. [It's quiet, and simple, and warm; he is a man that tries to take very little for granted. He says it now and remembers a time when he wouldn't have said it at all, and savors that security. Savors that he not only gets to know it for truth, but that he gets to say it, and he gets to be heard. For now, it is enough.]