[ Once Jaime's out of the room, Ruka forces out another exhale, but it doesn't feel like relief. It doesn't feel like anything. Okay. Okay. She's almost through this, she thinks; it's just a matter of getting these tears out, and getting her lungs and her heart back under control, and to stop picking at the scab of hurt and death and failure and fear, and just burn out the shadows from her heart, and go back to her usual self. Easy.
Oh, who is she kidding?
Ruka turns on the TV. She cycles through the most recent channels, opens the channel guide, scrolls down three pages, then gives up even the pretense of focus and sets it to scan mode. There. Set to crawl up the channels, station by station, seconds apiece for each, a dull background noise to hide herself from Jaime — and cover any words he might have with himself, in the other room.
She braces her hands on her knees, and tries once more for those ineffective breathing exercises. In slow, held long, and out slower, with her elbows locked to keep her shoulders from shaking and her body from heaving at the effort of it. She's tired, but it's nothing that sleep will fix. She's hurt, but it's nothing braces or bandages can set right. She doesn't want to be here, but grabbing her boots and sneaking out the front window isn't the escape that counts. (Besides, her keys are in her coat, and her coat's in the kitchen.)
But the crest of the worst of it has passed, and knowing numbness settles in its place. Feelings ebb, labeled and pinned into place like butterflies in a case, wing beats only the spasms of death as the glass is fixed above them. It would be easier to get back to this sort of stasis with her old relics, but that's nothing she can talk about, either. Not really.
She has to tell him something...
...
When Jaime finally returns to the living room, some things have changed. Ruka sits with her back against the couch, but is more towards the center than when he left; it turns out it's hard to look at a screen that's primarily on your blind side. She has also, despite obviously making zero efforts to do so, somehow acquired both dogs — one in the lap and one against her thigh, clearly wishing he'd gotten to there first. The TV has made it to the chain of international sports channels, blipping from Japanese Baseball to Argentinian Futbol to International Competitive Cup-Stacking (hosted in the Baltics this year).
It's... hard to say if she looks better, but she's not sobbing any more, and when she turns her head to catch his entrance, the tears on her cheeks are smeared and drying. Her eye's bloodshot, sure, but it seems drier, too.
no subject
Oh, who is she kidding?
Ruka turns on the TV. She cycles through the most recent channels, opens the channel guide, scrolls down three pages, then gives up even the pretense of focus and sets it to scan mode. There. Set to crawl up the channels, station by station, seconds apiece for each, a dull background noise to hide herself from Jaime — and cover any words he might have with himself, in the other room.
She braces her hands on her knees, and tries once more for those ineffective breathing exercises. In slow, held long, and out slower, with her elbows locked to keep her shoulders from shaking and her body from heaving at the effort of it. She's tired, but it's nothing that sleep will fix. She's hurt, but it's nothing braces or bandages can set right. She doesn't want to be here, but grabbing her boots and sneaking out the front window isn't the escape that counts. (Besides, her keys are in her coat, and her coat's in the kitchen.)
But the crest of the worst of it has passed, and knowing numbness settles in its place. Feelings ebb, labeled and pinned into place like butterflies in a case, wing beats only the spasms of death as the glass is fixed above them. It would be easier to get back to this sort of stasis with her old relics, but that's nothing she can talk about, either. Not really.
She has to tell him something...
...
When Jaime finally returns to the living room, some things have changed. Ruka sits with her back against the couch, but is more towards the center than when he left; it turns out it's hard to look at a screen that's primarily on your blind side. She has also, despite obviously making zero efforts to do so, somehow acquired both dogs — one in the lap and one against her thigh, clearly wishing he'd gotten to there first. The TV has made it to the chain of international sports channels, blipping from Japanese Baseball to Argentinian Futbol to International Competitive Cup-Stacking (hosted in the Baltics this year).
It's... hard to say if she looks better, but she's not sobbing any more, and when she turns her head to catch his entrance, the tears on her cheeks are smeared and drying. Her eye's bloodshot, sure, but it seems drier, too.
Pro...gress... ]