[ she doesn't glance up from the ratty looking notepad in her hands, because she knows there's rain streaking the nearby windows and she doesn't like the wet (anyone who does must be nuts, honestly). ]
(The first time he comes across little Bobbie Hughes, she doesn't yet even come up to his shoulder, but her dreams are larger by far. He tries fire, first — black and red and orange, roaring flame and shapes in the dark.
She comes back, regardless.)
Not unkindly, but not fondly, nevertheless: ] Don't you ever get tired of dying in your dreams?
bobbie is nineteen years old, and blessed with that kind of teenage arrogance and fearlessness that you never quite expect to be true, but she always holds it fast. it's not that he doesn't scare her, he does; just not quite enough to make her stop. it's not nerves of steel so much as being painfully stubborn. her gaze is steady. ]
[ He shrugs. (The shadows around his feet flicker.) He doesn't have any scruples, in dreams. He's proved that enough times. By drowning, by knife, by rope — anything, everything. All of it like it's old hat to him.
[ like it's a totally normal conversation piece. bobbie doesn't usually fight back, at such. she prefers to make it a kind of cat and mouse affair, trying to keep herself out of his reach. her tools, comparatively, are walls, gates, sudden appearances of rivers rushing between them, except that one time it backfired, what with drowning and all. a cursory glance at those flickering shadows, she thinks it might be prudent to, you know, gain a little distance.
she's still sporting the bruises from last time. ]
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[ She repeats the word like there's something funny to it. The waves lap on the shore, stony instead of smooth as sand. The water's cold.
Lily turns, smiles; ]
How do you know I shouldn't be saying that to you?
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[ The line of Gil's mouth pulls up in a thin approximation of a smile. He doesn't move from where he is, just shy of the tide. ]
—Have we met?
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Think I'll pass.
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(The first time he comes across little Bobbie Hughes, she doesn't yet even come up to his shoulder, but her dreams are larger by far. He tries fire, first — black and red and orange, roaring flame and shapes in the dark.
She comes back, regardless.)
Not unkindly, but not fondly, nevertheless: ] Don't you ever get tired of dying in your dreams?
no subject
bobbie is nineteen years old, and blessed with that kind of teenage arrogance and fearlessness that you never quite expect to be true, but she always holds it fast. it's not that he doesn't scare her, he does; just not quite enough to make her stop. it's not nerves of steel so much as being painfully stubborn. her gaze is steady. ]
Nope. But then it's not really dying, is it?
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[ He shrugs. (The shadows around his feet flicker.) He doesn't have any scruples, in dreams. He's proved that enough times. By drowning, by knife, by rope — anything, everything. All of it like it's old hat to him.
(Would he, in the waking world?) ]
Some day.
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[ like it's a totally normal conversation piece. bobbie doesn't usually fight back, at such. she prefers to make it a kind of cat and mouse affair, trying to keep herself out of his reach. her tools, comparatively, are walls, gates, sudden appearances of rivers rushing between them, except that one time it backfired, what with drowning and all. a cursory glance at those flickering shadows, she thinks it might be prudent to, you know, gain a little distance.
she's still sporting the bruises from last time. ]
What's with the constant obstruction, anyway?