Seeing your supposedly-dead erstwhile love interest isn't something you ever really expect. As such, when Norm spots Trudy staring at the Window, he promptly abandons his table (with all the grace of a drugged swan) in order to make his way over to her.
"Trudy."
The first time is a statement. The second is a question.
(You don't forget it when someone tells you they love you. Not when the very next sound you hear is fire and static.)
"I -- I'm not," he stammers, hands held a little awkwardly at chest-level as though he is afraid to touch her. The truth is he is, mostly because he's afraid she'll simply disappear. He hasn't seen that sort of thing happen in the bar, but that isn't necessarily a areassurance, not here.
"Thank you," she breathes out, for one moment shutting her eyes. Not dead, not dead, not dead. But just for one moment, because the very next she's on her feet and standing in front of him, ignoring the fear that if she touches him he'll vanish. Trudy reaches out, curls her fingers around his hands. Her skin is warm, alive, but she is not.
He doesn't vanish.
"I...landed out the back with my Samson. After, uh. Anything else, well...I ain't got a clue."
He holds her hand tight, now not afraid to touch her but afraid to let go. In response to her last statement, he manages a wry sort of smile and a brief shake of his head.
"I'm not," he says, quietly and a little quickly.
(She seems so alive.)
"I -- I'm glad you're here." It sounds a little pathetic, and a little socially off - at least in his opinion - that he should be happy of the fact that she's essentially stuck in a sort of Purgatory, but he can't help it.
Trudy's expression immediately turns crooked, and wry, and entertained. Not quite her normal wicked grin, but certainly a step in that direction. "All things considered, so am I."
Lowest ring of Hell is reserved for traitors, after all, and she'd defected with a vengeance.
(that's right, you aren't the only one here with a gun, bitch)
(but she did good, she knows she did good; or at least, she can face her Maker with a mostly clear conscience, which as good as you get)
If the lowest ring of Hell is reserved for traitors, well. He may not have made as surprising a turn as Trudy, but he'll follow her down.
He laughs -- short and stilted, but still a laugh. He lets go of her hand for this only; closing the space between them, he (somewhat awkwardly but no less determinedly) pulls her into a hug before planting a kiss on her lips.
Initiative may not be his strong point when it comes to being social and he's never been sure he'd away with this without being slapped, but it's a chance he'd rather not pass up. Not with what's going on on the other side of his door.
Kissing is awkward when they are standing - she's not tiny, just short, but he's a damn flagpole - but she wraps her arms around him, stands up on her toes, and makes it work.
He loves her. He loves her without question, and she loves him and that comes as an immense surprise to him in itself.
When he pulls away, it's not so much a step back as simply a bent to his posture.
"You're - you're feeling okay, though, right?" he asks, and as much as the question could be construed as for the purpose of studying life after death, he is genuinely concerned.
And Trudy doesn't let go, although she does lower her feet back onto the ground.
"I, uh." For a moment, she seems to falter. Then she recovers. "Can't get my baby working, which's a pain. But...yeah, I'm okay. I know I'm dead, but if I didn't know, I wouldn't be able to tell. Which, you know, is better than alternatives."
Like, say, still feeling like she's in all of those tiny, tiny pieces that her body and Samson were blown into.
"Good. Stay fine." Then Trudy grins at him. "Yeah, heard about the garage. It's a work in progress."
Even though she is very pragmatic and disinclined to brood by nature, everyone slips. He just happened to catch her like that. "Do you-uh. Where are you, out the door?"
Although she had admired and respected Quaritch - and still did, in a lot of ways - she'd never liked Selfridge. The mental image of what all of this would cost him warmed her briefly.
"Permanently? Huh, good for him. So, you're...staying?"
"Trudy."
The first time is a statement. The second is a question.
"Trudy?"
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Norm, I love you
Trudy, NO!
"....please god tell you aren't dead."
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"I -- I'm not," he stammers, hands held a little awkwardly at chest-level as though he is afraid to touch her. The truth is he is, mostly because he's afraid she'll simply disappear. He hasn't seen that sort of thing happen in the bar, but that isn't necessarily a areassurance, not here.
"How --?"
He can't find any end to the question.
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He doesn't vanish.
"I...landed out the back with my Samson. After, uh. Anything else, well...I ain't got a clue."
He's here, and alive, and he doesn't vanish.
"You...Norm. You're not dead."
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"I'm not," he says, quietly and a little quickly.
(She seems so alive.)
"I -- I'm glad you're here." It sounds a little pathetic, and a little socially off - at least in his opinion - that he should be happy of the fact that she's essentially stuck in a sort of Purgatory, but he can't help it.
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Lowest ring of Hell is reserved for traitors, after all, and she'd defected with a vengeance.
(that's right, you aren't the only one here with a gun, bitch)
(but she did good, she knows she did good; or at least, she can face her Maker with a mostly clear conscience, which as good as you get)
"Do I get a hug, at least?"
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He laughs -- short and stilted, but still a laugh. He lets go of her hand for this only; closing the space between them, he (somewhat awkwardly but no less determinedly) pulls her into a hug before planting a kiss on her lips.
Initiative may not be his strong point when it comes to being social and he's never been sure he'd away with this without being slapped, but it's a chance he'd rather not pass up. Not with what's going on on the other side of his door.
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God, she's missed him.
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When he pulls away, it's not so much a step back as simply a bent to his posture.
"You're - you're feeling okay, though, right?" he asks, and as much as the question could be construed as for the purpose of studying life after death, he is genuinely concerned.
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"I, uh." For a moment, she seems to falter. Then she recovers. "Can't get my baby working, which's a pain. But...yeah, I'm okay. I know I'm dead, but if I didn't know, I wouldn't be able to tell. Which, you know, is better than alternatives."
Like, say, still feeling like she's in all of those tiny, tiny pieces that her body and Samson were blown into.
"But you, babe? You're...okay?"
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"There's probably people here who can help out with the Samson; I know there's a garage, at least. That's a good sign, isn't it?"
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Even though she is very pragmatic and disinclined to brood by nature, everyone slips. He just happened to catch her like that. "Do you-uh. Where are you, out the door?"
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"The Na'vi are allowing a group of us scientists to stay. And Jake's one of them, now. They permanently transferred his soul into his avatar."
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"Permanently? Huh, good for him. So, you're...staying?"
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A beat.
"How long have you been here?"
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She wants to offer to fly him; it's the tip of her tongue, filling her mouth, we could fly to-
But wouldn't that be a bitch to explain.
"A few days. Not that long."
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