Feb. 8th, 2009

cunningas: (other: flame in his hands)
"Don't you dare say a word," she warned. "Not in the mood for your bullshit." Not right now. Not for this.

He watched her for a moment and there were many things he could have said. Many things he had said in the past to others about loss and learning. But he kept his mouth shut and his arms open.

With a little, barely restrained sob, she ran into them.

Still, he kept his mouth shut as he rubbed a hand over her back. Even he was good for comfort, sometimes.

And for that? She was more than grateful.
cunningas: (other: cry)
The ship is crowded, crammed tight with people shoulder to shoulder and elbow to elbow. They haven't been all pressed in together long enough for too much body heat and too much body scent to become an issue. They only left atmo mere minutes ago, the sensed rather than felt shuddering of the ship against air suddenly ceasing and as that happens it seems the entire collection of humanity pressed together inside the hold lets out one collective breath. They made it out. Now they just have to get away.

Even for the sudden easing of tension, no one speaks. Even for the number of people, there is remarkably little noise. Not enough room to shuffle and move about and no one seems in the mood to talk, not even the children. More than one face holds a rather shell-shocked expression. More than one person is likely still seeing what they left in their mind's eye. Home.

Time to find a new one. )


cunningas: (Default)

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