Mm? [ She's not paying attention, not really, and even when Kathleen turns her face towards Crane her eyes linger on an unimportant spot on the windowpane. Proof that she's distracted.
Eventually, she manages to break her gaze free and looks at him, her eyebrows lifted in silent question. ]
[There's a pen in his hand, black tip resting on a piece of paper, forgotten until now. That's right -- he was writing something. Kathleen's distraction and Crane's concern took his mind away from it and he almost says he's sorry, but the reminder that his constant apologies are a habit he really needs to give up is enough to stop him this time.
He waves the paper, held between his index and thumb. The beginning of a grocery list and an adequate escape from what he really meant.]
[ As distracted as Kathleen is, she still sees it: the impulse that almost makes him apologize and the desire that lingers even after he doesn't. It makes the corner of her mouth twitch and Kathleen doesn't smile (god, how long has it been) but she doesn't frown either and her eyes are dry. That's as good as it gets for her some days and Crane is trying (no, he always tries) and she'd be lower than lower if she didn't appreciate that. (It makes her something near to grateful; it makes her guilty too.)
Her eyes follow the piece of paper on its path through the air. ] What've you got?
[His eyes rest on her for a moment longer, parted lips shutting when he turns to take a look at his handwriting.]
Uhm... Bread, fruit, water, [and he interrupts himself for a beat before deciding to skip the last item: new towels to replace the ones he threw away after bringing a couple of new injuries back home.] That's it.
[ Kathleen exhales a noise, not quite amused. ] Sounds like a regular old prison in here, [ she says with a grim sort of humor (she feels bad about that too). She'd chosen the path she'd walked on; it was devised through her own action. But Crane hadn't chosen anything, hadn't had a choice as to who made and who he ultimately belonged to.
Living in the desert isn't fun. Kathleen tries not to forget that for his sake.
She looks at him for a moment, her head tilting to one side as she studies the way the light falls across his face. Was that bruise there yesterday, she thinks and then is disappointed to realize she doesn't know. ]
Milk? [ A beat, correcting: ] We drink milk, don't we?
[Crane allows himself to relax and manages a smile, head between his shoulders. It's part of an instinctive impulse to hide himself, to look down and away, even when the situation calls for a lighthearted mood. It's not something he thinks about.]
Yeah, [The pen scratches the paper without ink, so he taps the tip on the corner of the list until it can write again.] I think so?
[There we go.]
Okay, milk, got it. Oh -- how about some ice-cream?
[ She likes it when he smiles, truth be told, even if he never really smiles at her. When Crane smiles it's at the floor, at his hands, out the window. His smiles skirt the edges of the room, but very rarely find center in her gaze and she's okay with that, she supposes.
The corners of her mouth twitch again, more definitely this time, and Kathleen shrugs loosely. ] We are in the desert. Ice cream would be apt.
And get one of those squeezy bottles full of chocolate or caramel. I don't care what kind, you pick. [ She goes quiet for a moment and then presses her lips together hopefully.] That almost sounds like a treat, right?
[His lips are pressed pleasantly in return, watching the way Kathleen's expression allows a little bit of what he wants to give her (--I'm sorry it's not enough--) before he looks away with a nod and registers her words.]
I could make pancakes again. [The first and last time he'd tried had been a disaster, but Crane was never made to give up easily. For better or for worse.] Oh-! [he points, writing before the brilliant reminder is revealed:] Soda.
You could make pancakes again, [ she says and her voice lifts in what could only be described as rueful amusement. Yes, his foray into making pancakes had most certainly been a disaster, but Crane had insisted and Kathleen tries very hard not to tell him no unless it's completely necessary. ] Or you could just buy one of those boxes of the pre-mix stuff and I could try my hand for once.
[ Little known fact but Kathleen used to be a whiz in the kitchen. These days she sometimes forgets to eat. Funny, how life changes things.
Her attention turns back out towards the window and the flat, dried-out landscape beyond. Kathleen's quiet for a long time, but then she finally asks: ] Think there'll be a lot of people at the store?
[ She doesn't go out. Not unless she has to. She doesn't like being around people, because she knows she can hurt them. But sometimes, for Crane, she tries. It doesn't mean she succeeds by any stretch of the imagine, but she tries.
You could teach me. [he's excited by the prospect. Learning, being useful, treating Kathleen to a little something. Crane is ready to stand up, folding the list to slip it in his pocket when she continues, brows arched when he looks at her.]
It's practically empty at night. Like, half an hour before it closes?
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Eventually, she manages to break her gaze free and looks at him, her eyebrows lifted in silent question. ]
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He waves the paper, held between his index and thumb. The beginning of a grocery list and an adequate escape from what he really meant.]
--do you need anything?
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Her eyes follow the piece of paper on its path through the air. ] What've you got?
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Uhm... Bread, fruit, water, [and he interrupts himself for a beat before deciding to skip the last item: new towels to replace the ones he threw away after bringing a couple of new injuries back home.] That's it.
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Living in the desert isn't fun. Kathleen tries not to forget that for his sake.
She looks at him for a moment, her head tilting to one side as she studies the way the light falls across his face. Was that bruise there yesterday, she thinks and then is disappointed to realize she doesn't know. ]
Milk? [ A beat, correcting: ] We drink milk, don't we?
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Yeah, [The pen scratches the paper without ink, so he taps the tip on the corner of the list until it can write again.] I think so?
[There we go.]
Okay, milk, got it. Oh -- how about some ice-cream?
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The corners of her mouth twitch again, more definitely this time, and Kathleen shrugs loosely. ] We are in the desert. Ice cream would be apt.
And get one of those squeezy bottles full of chocolate or caramel. I don't care what kind, you pick. [ She goes quiet for a moment and then presses her lips together hopefully.] That almost sounds like a treat, right?
[ (I want you to be happy. I'm sorry.) ]
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I could make pancakes again. [The first and last time he'd tried had been a disaster, but Crane was never made to give up easily. For better or for worse.] Oh-! [he points, writing before the brilliant reminder is revealed:] Soda.
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[ Little known fact but Kathleen used to be a whiz in the kitchen. These days she sometimes forgets to eat. Funny, how life changes things.
Her attention turns back out towards the window and the flat, dried-out landscape beyond. Kathleen's quiet for a long time, but then she finally asks: ] Think there'll be a lot of people at the store?
[ She doesn't go out. Not unless she has to. She doesn't like being around people, because she knows she can hurt them. But sometimes, for Crane, she tries. It doesn't mean she succeeds by any stretch of the imagine, but she tries.
She tries really really hard. ]
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It's practically empty at night. Like, half an hour before it closes?