“It’s going to be terrible anytime,” he says. “There’s really no good way. Besides old age and in your bed, probably.”
It’s not a consolation to say or even think something like at least they died as heroes. People would presumably want them cowardly and alive rather than brave and dead. Nothing is a consolation besides the fact that they were here, they were known, they were loved, and they are still loved.
Stephen sighs, a tense exhale. Just as quick as he’d cracked open the seal on this conversation, there’s the immediate regret: what does he say now. What do they do with all of this. Despite broaching it, he knows he is so terrible at this part; his bedside manner hadn’t been his strong suit, this man of the stellar case history, a near-perfect record, no accidents. Death crawls along his spine, hammers on his nerves. His whole professional life has been spent trying to keep it at bay. He’s not good at looking at it head-on.
What he settles on, in the end:
“I’m glad you’re here with me. For this part. And in general.”
Having cradled his hand in both of hers, Derrica has to lift one of her own away to dash quickly at the tears gathering in her eyes.
There will be some point, when they have finished their work and life has settled back into something near to routine, when she will break apart. She isn't certain of what that kind of fracture will look like, only that it will come to her and she will have to survive it.
She's done it once before, and she will do it again. If she must.
But here and now, she takes up his hand in both of hers. Holds fast.
"I'm grateful," she murmurs. "I know you had doubts about whether this was the place for you. If you had decided otherwise..."
It would have been Derrica here, alone. Not just in this moment, but all other moments going forward. One healer for the whole of Riftwatch, and what would have happened if she'd fallen short?
“Even if I’d decided otherwise,” Stephen says without missing a beat, picking up her trailing sentence, “I’d have done a 180 and joined you here regardless. The work is the work.”
Recruitment and rebuilding feels like a bitter topic when they’re still sitting here in the ashes, but he finds his thoughts still ping-ponging in that direction, adding: “Nina. The new rifter. She says she’s good at healing. I’ll be seeing how much she might want to pitch in. Not— not this right now, I mean, but regular healer work.”
They won’t be alone forever, is the point.
But when he tries to imagine what the future of this little corner of Riftwatch looks like, he finds his thoughts whiting out into static. He had had so many plans: tidy, orderly, putting it all into a to-do list, and yet it seems so insufferably difficult to envision now. Not because his own personal world has shattered, but because everyone else’s has: the others reeling, shambling, and he can’t see how they’ll recover from this. It feels like something irreparable has broken, some fracture which might not grow back. Or if it does, perhaps it’ll be in the wrong shape: twisted and gnarled and never able to carry the same weight it once did.
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no subject
It’s not a consolation to say or even think something like at least they died as heroes. People would presumably want them cowardly and alive rather than brave and dead. Nothing is a consolation besides the fact that they were here, they were known, they were loved, and they are still loved.
Stephen sighs, a tense exhale. Just as quick as he’d cracked open the seal on this conversation, there’s the immediate regret: what does he say now. What do they do with all of this. Despite broaching it, he knows he is so terrible at this part; his bedside manner hadn’t been his strong suit, this man of the stellar case history, a near-perfect record, no accidents. Death crawls along his spine, hammers on his nerves. His whole professional life has been spent trying to keep it at bay. He’s not good at looking at it head-on.
What he settles on, in the end:
“I’m glad you’re here with me. For this part. And in general.”
no subject
There will be some point, when they have finished their work and life has settled back into something near to routine, when she will break apart. She isn't certain of what that kind of fracture will look like, only that it will come to her and she will have to survive it.
She's done it once before, and she will do it again. If she must.
But here and now, she takes up his hand in both of hers. Holds fast.
"I'm grateful," she murmurs. "I know you had doubts about whether this was the place for you. If you had decided otherwise..."
It would have been Derrica here, alone. Not just in this moment, but all other moments going forward. One healer for the whole of Riftwatch, and what would have happened if she'd fallen short?
no subject
Recruitment and rebuilding feels like a bitter topic when they’re still sitting here in the ashes, but he finds his thoughts still ping-ponging in that direction, adding: “Nina. The new rifter. She says she’s good at healing. I’ll be seeing how much she might want to pitch in. Not— not this right now, I mean, but regular healer work.”
They won’t be alone forever, is the point.
But when he tries to imagine what the future of this little corner of Riftwatch looks like, he finds his thoughts whiting out into static. He had had so many plans: tidy, orderly, putting it all into a to-do list, and yet it seems so insufferably difficult to envision now. Not because his own personal world has shattered, but because everyone else’s has: the others reeling, shambling, and he can’t see how they’ll recover from this. It feels like something irreparable has broken, some fracture which might not grow back. Or if it does, perhaps it’ll be in the wrong shape: twisted and gnarled and never able to carry the same weight it once did.