[ Used to be, before it all went, Natalia would try to push Iain along by force, shoving the truth at him indelicately, as if somehow that would make it stick better or longer. (His hands pressed to cover the ink on the small of her back, her eyes saying the words she could never bring herself to tell him. This is yours, this is you; I gave you this, I gave you everything; it's precious to you, I swear it is.)
She doesn't do that nowadays. (Please love me again.) It only hurts the both of them more. ]
S'alright. [ It isn't, but she pretends like it is, she pretends for him because, in the end, Natalia knows that's the only thing left she can give him. A smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes but that still somehow manages to say I'm glad that I know you. It, too, will slip away like so much sand through resigned fingers. He'll forget that it's alright, forget that she's given him her name yet again, and all that will be left is that single word and all the regret it can possibly hold.
(Sorry.)
On quiet feet she pads over to him, doesn't look at his Walkman or the tapes by his elbow. (That's her handwriting on the cover, spelling out some Edith Piaf refrain in tightly-cramped script. She'd listened to the songs until she knew all the words by heart and then she gave them to him so that he wouldn't forget them. She's certain he doesn't know what they mean anymore so sometimes she pretends that she doesn't either.) Her hand hovers by his shoulder but she hesitates to touch him. Sometimes it only confuses him more. ]
Couldn't sleep, luv? [ They've had this conversation dozens of times before. She knows his answer. But he doesn't know that. ]
✘ AU
She doesn't do that nowadays. (Please love me again.) It only hurts the both of them more. ]
S'alright. [ It isn't, but she pretends like it is, she pretends for him because, in the end, Natalia knows that's the only thing left she can give him. A smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes but that still somehow manages to say I'm glad that I know you. It, too, will slip away like so much sand through resigned fingers. He'll forget that it's alright, forget that she's given him her name yet again, and all that will be left is that single word and all the regret it can possibly hold.
(Sorry.)
On quiet feet she pads over to him, doesn't look at his Walkman or the tapes by his elbow. (That's her handwriting on the cover, spelling out some Edith Piaf refrain in tightly-cramped script. She'd listened to the songs until she knew all the words by heart and then she gave them to him so that he wouldn't forget them. She's certain he doesn't know what they mean anymore so sometimes she pretends that she doesn't either.) Her hand hovers by his shoulder but she hesitates to touch him. Sometimes it only confuses him more. ]
Couldn't sleep, luv? [ They've had this conversation dozens of times before. She knows his answer. But he doesn't know that. ]