"Obviously not now—how can you possibly be sad while standing next to this?"
Leander's hand spreads theatrically, makes a smooth gesture from shoulder to hip, indicating his own self—then back up to his face to swirl once more for good measure. The silly, extra-cheekbonesy face he's put on becomes a smile that grows as he leans in, and in, and in, unrelenting, trying to provoke a little fun out of her. A laugh, maybe.
He finishes with a companionable bump of shoulders before easing up on her personal space, and once there's room, still looking pleased with his own antics, he shoves another slice into his mouth.
It was a real question; she can answer it if she likes.
The laughter comes. A smile first, then a bright laugh. It gives her some space from the ruminations of what she'd felt in the fade and the scrutiny she had weathered time and again.
"Obviously not right now," she agrees. It's less to do with whatever manly charms Leander teases and more the companionable company, the shared snack. Derrica cherishes these little reminders of camaraderie. She stacks them and tallies them, holds them close to her heart.
"No, I'm not. I'm not sad," she continues a bit more firmly, though it's not entirely the truth. "But the spirits that come are sometimes. And it...sticks. Like tar."
Which may be more because of Derrica than anything else. Too empathetic. Too easy to sympathize. But that doesn't occur to her.
There we go. For some, this would be a moment of reflexive commiseration; for Leander, a puzzle to feel proud for solving. Insert effort, receive attention. Transform frown into laugh. Easy.
"I thought it might." As if it was his idea all along, and Derrica hadn't wandered this way a whim—or to seek comfort, maybe, from the very first living body she saw. (Why else would she come to him? Surely not for any precise reason.)
"Do you ever wonder what it's like, being a spirit? Living such a directionless existence you've got to mimic a fragment of someone else just to experience some... sense of purpose. How boring would that be," he asks, entirely casual, before what's left of the orange disappears into his hungry mouth.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Leander's hand spreads theatrically, makes a smooth gesture from shoulder to hip, indicating his own self—then back up to his face to swirl once more for good measure. The silly, extra-cheekbonesy face he's put on becomes a smile that grows as he leans in, and in, and in, unrelenting, trying to provoke a little fun out of her. A laugh, maybe.
He finishes with a companionable bump of shoulders before easing up on her personal space, and once there's room, still looking pleased with his own antics, he shoves another slice into his mouth.
It was a real question; she can answer it if she likes.
no subject
"Obviously not right now," she agrees. It's less to do with whatever manly charms Leander teases and more the companionable company, the shared snack. Derrica cherishes these little reminders of camaraderie. She stacks them and tallies them, holds them close to her heart.
"No, I'm not. I'm not sad," she continues a bit more firmly, though it's not entirely the truth. "But the spirits that come are sometimes. And it...sticks. Like tar."
Which may be more because of Derrica than anything else. Too empathetic. Too easy to sympathize. But that doesn't occur to her.
"But this helps."
She lifts the orange, tips her head towards him.
no subject
"I thought it might." As if it was his idea all along, and Derrica hadn't wandered this way a whim—or to seek comfort, maybe, from the very first living body she saw. (Why else would she come to him? Surely not for any precise reason.)
"Do you ever wonder what it's like, being a spirit? Living such a directionless existence you've got to mimic a fragment of someone else just to experience some... sense of purpose. How boring would that be," he asks, entirely casual, before what's left of the orange disappears into his hungry mouth.