[ There's a Walkman at his elbow, accompanied by a handful of tapes she ought to recognize. (He doesn't, but he listens to them like he should. I'll be seeing you in every lovely summer's day; in every thing that's light and gay. I'll always think of you that way. The songs say he should remember. He should remember her.)
At the first noise, he straightens up like he's been shocked, hands falling from his face, eyes wide for a moment before his expression pans out into something more neutral. (Iain. Me. Natalia. Her. He doesn't remember that they've had this talk before.) The smile that he offers her now is apologetic. (The shirt — his shirt — is a clue; she means something. He doesn't know for how long, or to what degree.) ]
Hi, [ is what he says in response, the single syllable still tentative.
After he'd first wound her his life's story, he'd tried to keep his deterioration from her. It wasn't, after all, the sort of thing that either of them were really taking well. Every day had felt like one more step toward his deathbed, one more step on which he was dragging her along, too. He'd still known how to love her (that he loved her), for a while, but each day, his hands seemed less sure and the way he looked at her less bright. He'd earned a handful of new scars, too, and had kept earning them until he'd become unable to remember why he was going after them in the first place. And by that point, he'd stopped trying to act as if he could still recall. (It's all going, he'd said. Not telling her hadn't been a choice he could maintain.) ]
Sorry, [ he adds momentarily, the apology, simple as it is, covering a multitude of sins. (Sorry about me. Sorry about us. Sorry I ever said yes.) ]
✘ AU
At the first noise, he straightens up like he's been shocked, hands falling from his face, eyes wide for a moment before his expression pans out into something more neutral. (Iain. Me. Natalia. Her. He doesn't remember that they've had this talk before.) The smile that he offers her now is apologetic. (The shirt — his shirt — is a clue; she means something. He doesn't know for how long, or to what degree.) ]
Hi, [ is what he says in response, the single syllable still tentative.
After he'd first wound her his life's story, he'd tried to keep his deterioration from her. It wasn't, after all, the sort of thing that either of them were really taking well. Every day had felt like one more step toward his deathbed, one more step on which he was dragging her along, too. He'd still known how to love her (that he loved her), for a while, but each day, his hands seemed less sure and the way he looked at her less bright. He'd earned a handful of new scars, too, and had kept earning them until he'd become unable to remember why he was going after them in the first place. And by that point, he'd stopped trying to act as if he could still recall. (It's all going, he'd said. Not telling her hadn't been a choice he could maintain.) ]
Sorry, [ he adds momentarily, the apology, simple as it is, covering a multitude of sins. (Sorry about me. Sorry about us. Sorry I ever said yes.) ]