moneypenny | contact ✖ ic

[ Some days, his gaze says that he isn't as lost as he was before. That he sees small glimmers (I think I know you, I do, I swear it), here and there.

Not today.

(Who are you?)

They're his worst days, the days he doesn't seem to recognize his own face in the mirror, or, at the very least, he seems to wonder when he aged so much. (I'm getting old.) The streaks of grey in his hair are more pronounced, curling through as though to outline the cracks in his skull that seem to grow from day to day. They're the days his emotions hit their extremes, whether it be anger, resignation, or confusion. He exists. Why can't he remember anything past that? Had there even been a time when he did? ]

Not really, [ he admits, with a half-shrug. (Her hand gets a cursory glance. She is wearing your shirt. She means something. She means something.) ]

[ Iain's glance tells her all she needs to know. (No, not today. Maybe tomorrow, then. Maybe for a little while.) Gingerly, she curls her fingers back to form a loose fist which she drops again to her side. The look that she gives Iain is quietly reassuring though strained at the very edges. (S'alright, luv. Better luck next time. I'm not goin' anywhere; never planned to.) ]

Can I make you somethin'? [ Moneypenny knows how Iain takes his coffee, how he takes his tea, too. How he likes to drink his whiskey (or used to, she doesn't let him anymore; the alcohol just makes things worse). The path that his straight razor would take over the planes of his face, back when his hands were still steady, back when his muscles could remember. She knows how he likes to dress, how he hates to drive, and which tapes in his car have gotten the most mileage. MP knows all this because, like Iain had told her once: someone has to. ] Somethin' to drink or eat. Anythin'.

[ (I'll give you anything, Iain. If you'd only remember how to ask.) Moneypenny shrugs awkwardly. She can't remember when it started to be uncomfortable between them -- whether it was a slow and steady decline or if she'd simply woken up one morning and realized he was a stranger. ] Company.

Edited 2011-08-09 02:57 (UTC)

Company.

[ There is comfort to be had in company (in not being alone), even if that company is relatively unknown. (Somebody has to know. Who I am. What I am.) He nods at the seat across the (tiny) table from him, pushing it out with one foot. (Stay. It's his turn. Now. For a bit. For forever. No matter what she ends up doing, she will be gone from his memory by the end of the night.) ]

[ Natalia half-smiles (it's a cool comfort; not cold, but not warm either; detatched is probably the best word for it, given how few dots Iain can connect). Thankfully, carefully, she lowers herself into the chair. It's not something she's used to being -- careful -- but it's something that was relatively easy to learn compared to everything else.

Her hair's not blonde anymore (Natalia brushes some of it out of her eyes as she wraps her arms around her middle and tries to get comfortable in the chilly kitchen). She dyes it black these days so that no one will recognize her (if Iain can't, why should anyone else be allowed to); the bathroom sink still has the stains, an ugly blue-grey ring in an otherwise spotless white basin. Seated across from him, Natalia can't bring herself to look Iain in the eyes so she stares at his collarbones instead.

(Used t'be, was never afraid of you. Only now. Hell of a thing. And you can't even think to be smug about it. A shame, that.) Eventually, she asks: ] It help any -- me tellin' you?

[ (Who I am. Who you are. That you love me, or used to. That I'll be here, even after you've forgotten. That I still love you, broken as you are.) ]

[ Iain runs a hand back through his hair, gaze on her a moment longer before it simply finds the table. ]

It helps, [ he says, although he seems unsure about the answer even as he offers it up. It helps for the moment is what he means. It helps place him, for a little while, but when it's gone, it's gone — all information that has to be input again. But he's grateful, for the timespan in which he can remember. Maybe he can't back up all the facts with personal memory, but he can pretend. For his sake, as well as for hers.

He wants to ask her what happened, ask her why it did, but for whatever reason, he thinks he's asked her those questions before. That's the logical sequence of events, isn't it? If he can't remember, now, maybe he couldn't earlier, too. He'd have asked, then. He would have asked. (He doesn't as much, now. Instead, he just tries to keep going. A rocky road as traveled on bare feet.) ]

[ It helps -- knowing that it helps (even though Natalia knows better; sometimes it doesn't).

She starts at the beginning, much like he had months back. Her hands she folds neatly on the table in front of her; Iain won't remember that it's out of character, that it's the sort of thing she would have never done before. Now, it is a tidiness, an almost necessary gesture (control where there is none, a reminder to her of what he's lost, of what he was, those steady hands; you'll never touch me again, will you). ]

Your name's Iain Marling, an' you're forty-five years old. You live in this house, y'live here with me.

[ Everything is broken down into tiny packets of information, the simplest and most streamlined morsels of truth she knows how to offer. Natalia isn't sure if it's easier for Iain this way, but it's easier for her. The words threaten to stick in her throat less when they're not strung out in long, desperate phrases, sentiments that have difficulty finding pause or end. (I love you, I love you, please come back to me; Natalia stopped sharing that particular memory a long time ago.) ]

My name's Natalia. I look after you. [ Her gaze drops lower, now to his chest; it rises and falls with his breath (the proof of life). A hesitation, then; her lashes want to grow damp and stick together but she won't let them, not while he can see. (I'm a big girl, look how tough I can be.) ] I will always look after you.

An' it's alright if you don't know why. Doesn't change nothin'. Never will.

Edited 2011-08-10 16:03 (UTC)

[ He listens with a sort of incredulity. (Did I really forget so much? Is that even possible? How could I forget you? Questions asked in a different capacity, but bearing the same pain. How much hurt have I caused you?) His fingers remain still on the tabletop, not unsteady for once, but caught like unattached anchors, instead. There's nothing they're mooring. The little white shadow had clung to the chains, and, eventually, the ships had broken free.

(It's not alright, he wants to say, but even he knows that the words won't change what's already come to pass. No guardian angel is meant to be human. No human is meant to shoulder that kind of weight.) ]

Thank you, [ is what he elects to say instead, his gaze still aimed at the table instead of upon the face that he no longer recognizes. It's another set of words meant to disguise the thread that seems to run through everything he does, these days: I'm sorry. The original words chafe, as if they were too cheap to properly hold the sentiment behind them. (He suspects that there'll never be anything quite sufficient.) ]

[ Used to be, she would get angry when he'd say things like that. How could he be thankful for something he couldn't understand; how could he possibly know what it felt like to be haunted by a ghost that lives in the same house, to be widowed by a man who still leaves and breathes and lies within arm's reach? How could he say that to her and mean it? And the answer was always the same, never satisfying: he couldn't.

(You've no bleedin' idea, that's what Natalia would say and then disappear into the bathroom and run the bath to scalding. Maybe break a mirror, maybe two, maybe a finger.)

But that was then, before the worst of it all, back when Iain could still find it in himself to gather her in his arms and kiss her hair and pretend. She doesn't even have that anymore, that pantomime of love, but she has learned not to devalue what sits in front of her. As whitewashed as his mind is, the man before her is more than just a body; he's Iain, even if he can't muster the thought on his own (she has to believe that, she has to). Natalia shrugs, the oversized collar of his shirt slipping to expose one of her shoulders. ] S'alright, sweets-- [ she still calls him that, she'll never stop. ] --nothin' Natalia can't shoulder.

[ In an attempt to jostle him out of his sullenness, she moves to pull one of his shirt's sleeves up her arm, exposing her bicep, which she flexes at him, a desperate little smile on her face. ] I'm all brawn an' no brains, tha's what they used t'say.

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