Comprehension
Jan. 3rd, 2011 08:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysTitle: Comprehension
Rating: PG
Series: Gundam 00 (Allelujah/Marie)
Wordcount: 599
Remarks: Contains spoilers for the season two finale. Short'n'sweet'n'a little bit concussed.
You need to stop hitting your head, Sumeragi says, disgruntled order playing harmony to the gentle brush of fingers just above his left ear, and he gives her a lopsided smile. Not so bad, I’ve had worse, at least we remembered the helmet this time—the words are in his head but the platitudes catch in his throat, and silence slides forward in steady replacement. Light-hearted truths are pretences too thin to cover reality right now, and neither have the heart to entertain them.
The fingers curl, briefly cupping his face before she reaches down to push away from the bed. Someone will come by later, she says, catching herself with the ease of practice and a palm against the wall, turning towards the door. To leave, to exit, to attend to too many things that need attention. He shifts, inches carefully in a turn of his own because he has something other than platitudes to be said, but when she glances back her expression becomes strained and sad and she says, I’m sorry about this, Allelujah.
I understand, he thinks, but the door hisses shut, leaving him with silence and questions and an apology he doesn’t deserve or need or want. Tieria is dead and Setsuna is dying and they don’t have the power to spare on such simple things as minor head injuries and fractured ribs. There’s nothing to apologise for.
Everyone keeps trying. Sorry we left you so long, but Cherudim was on the brink and we wanted Lyle out of there fast. Sorry, am I pressing too hard, I don’t really know how to do this. Sorry, I know this isn’t much. Sorry, I can’t stay long. I’m sorry, Allelujah.
I understand. But can you tell me-
He tugs at the sheet covering him, curling his fingers around its edge, and he wants to pull it loose and throw it sideways. Just turning his head to see if there’s room to do so shakes his vision, dark blurs slipping around the edges. He heard somewhere once that after three concussions the human brain falls under high risk of permanent damage, but he’s not human and he’s not undamaged and he thinks he could at least make it to the doorway if the world took just long enough to be still.
Stop it, Hallelujah says, sick and sullen. It hasn’t been so long that he doesn’t remember that Hallelujah knows, but he doesn’t think Hallelujah understands because their priorities haven’t changed and they have always been different.
The sound of the door sliding open is loud in both quiet space and noisy thoughts, and a second later he’s pushed himself half upright without thinking because it is Marie drifting in. You shouldn’t be up, he wants to say, or maybe Jesus girl, how much does it take to keep you down, but all he manages is a thin hiss as ribs shift a little further than they should, and by the time he remembers how to breathe again her weight is already pressing against his knee.
A hand is laid over the one not pressed against his chest, and her fingers curl, sliding into the gaps spread between his own. He looks at her, at tightness around the eyes and the gown she hasn’t had time to change out of, desperate for his breath to come back because no one has answered him yet and he needs someone to understand.
The fingers squeeze.
“I’m fine,” she says, and he closes his eyes and leans back against the pillow again, because that's all he wanted to know.
Rating: PG
Series: Gundam 00 (Allelujah/Marie)
Wordcount: 599
Remarks: Contains spoilers for the season two finale. Short'n'sweet'n'a little bit concussed.
You need to stop hitting your head, Sumeragi says, disgruntled order playing harmony to the gentle brush of fingers just above his left ear, and he gives her a lopsided smile. Not so bad, I’ve had worse, at least we remembered the helmet this time—the words are in his head but the platitudes catch in his throat, and silence slides forward in steady replacement. Light-hearted truths are pretences too thin to cover reality right now, and neither have the heart to entertain them.
The fingers curl, briefly cupping his face before she reaches down to push away from the bed. Someone will come by later, she says, catching herself with the ease of practice and a palm against the wall, turning towards the door. To leave, to exit, to attend to too many things that need attention. He shifts, inches carefully in a turn of his own because he has something other than platitudes to be said, but when she glances back her expression becomes strained and sad and she says, I’m sorry about this, Allelujah.
I understand, he thinks, but the door hisses shut, leaving him with silence and questions and an apology he doesn’t deserve or need or want. Tieria is dead and Setsuna is dying and they don’t have the power to spare on such simple things as minor head injuries and fractured ribs. There’s nothing to apologise for.
Everyone keeps trying. Sorry we left you so long, but Cherudim was on the brink and we wanted Lyle out of there fast. Sorry, am I pressing too hard, I don’t really know how to do this. Sorry, I know this isn’t much. Sorry, I can’t stay long. I’m sorry, Allelujah.
I understand. But can you tell me-
He tugs at the sheet covering him, curling his fingers around its edge, and he wants to pull it loose and throw it sideways. Just turning his head to see if there’s room to do so shakes his vision, dark blurs slipping around the edges. He heard somewhere once that after three concussions the human brain falls under high risk of permanent damage, but he’s not human and he’s not undamaged and he thinks he could at least make it to the doorway if the world took just long enough to be still.
Stop it, Hallelujah says, sick and sullen. It hasn’t been so long that he doesn’t remember that Hallelujah knows, but he doesn’t think Hallelujah understands because their priorities haven’t changed and they have always been different.
The sound of the door sliding open is loud in both quiet space and noisy thoughts, and a second later he’s pushed himself half upright without thinking because it is Marie drifting in. You shouldn’t be up, he wants to say, or maybe Jesus girl, how much does it take to keep you down, but all he manages is a thin hiss as ribs shift a little further than they should, and by the time he remembers how to breathe again her weight is already pressing against his knee.
A hand is laid over the one not pressed against his chest, and her fingers curl, sliding into the gaps spread between his own. He looks at her, at tightness around the eyes and the gown she hasn’t had time to change out of, desperate for his breath to come back because no one has answered him yet and he needs someone to understand.
The fingers squeeze.
“I’m fine,” she says, and he closes his eyes and leans back against the pillow again, because that's all he wanted to know.
