[She draws back, offering him a slight smile, and sits back. The bloody needle is set to the side; she'll clean that up later. For now, it's enough to wipe his blood absently off her fingers. Drops linger, but frankly, it's not as if blood bothers her.]
And no, no tragedy, to my great surprise. Robert went through the same process I did. He was torn apart, and then he was put back together. I awoke to him at my side, marveling at what we'd become.
A ghost . . . yes, I suppose that's a decent enough term for us. We're not about to disappear into any supposed afterlife, though. We're-- or we were, at any rate-- perfectly content in our state of being.
[She was, anyway. Robert had wanted a baby, and that meant becoming human again, and god, but she'd balked. Later, he'd assured her, later, once we're done seeing and doing all we want to, but think of it, Rosie . . .
And now here they are, human again, ostensibly caught for good in this world. Will he still want that when he wakes up? It's not a thought she's entirely opposed to, but it makes her stomach flip, it really does. But ah, that's a thought for later. She won't fret herself over it now. Silence reigns for a few seconds, and then she adds:]
He used to take, I was going to say. He used to take everything he wanted, which is why I believe Robert and I became a point of fixation for him, because he couldn't have us, no matter what he tried. We had each other, and frankly, even if we hadn't, I found the man loathsome from the start. So it became sixteen years of . . . [She pulls a face.] Oh, liberties. You must know the sort. Little touches and won't you allow me the pleasure of this dance and words that might be taken innocently, if you were stupid enough to believe it.
Comstock wasn't personal. I loathe the man for a variety of reasons, but he killed us because we were an obstacle, nothing more. But Fink . . . it was vindictive. It was something he took pleasure in, because if he couldn't fuck us, at least he could take something else from us.
no subject
[She draws back, offering him a slight smile, and sits back. The bloody needle is set to the side; she'll clean that up later. For now, it's enough to wipe his blood absently off her fingers. Drops linger, but frankly, it's not as if blood bothers her.]
And no, no tragedy, to my great surprise. Robert went through the same process I did. He was torn apart, and then he was put back together. I awoke to him at my side, marveling at what we'd become.
A ghost . . . yes, I suppose that's a decent enough term for us. We're not about to disappear into any supposed afterlife, though. We're-- or we were, at any rate-- perfectly content in our state of being.
[She was, anyway. Robert had wanted a baby, and that meant becoming human again, and god, but she'd balked. Later, he'd assured her, later, once we're done seeing and doing all we want to, but think of it, Rosie . . .
And now here they are, human again, ostensibly caught for good in this world. Will he still want that when he wakes up? It's not a thought she's entirely opposed to, but it makes her stomach flip, it really does. But ah, that's a thought for later. She won't fret herself over it now. Silence reigns for a few seconds, and then she adds:]
He used to take, I was going to say. He used to take everything he wanted, which is why I believe Robert and I became a point of fixation for him, because he couldn't have us, no matter what he tried. We had each other, and frankly, even if we hadn't, I found the man loathsome from the start. So it became sixteen years of . . . [She pulls a face.] Oh, liberties. You must know the sort. Little touches and won't you allow me the pleasure of this dance and words that might be taken innocently, if you were stupid enough to believe it.
Comstock wasn't personal. I loathe the man for a variety of reasons, but he killed us because we were an obstacle, nothing more. But Fink . . . it was vindictive. It was something he took pleasure in, because if he couldn't fuck us, at least he could take something else from us.