(no subject)
KIND OF SORT OF A SEQUEL TO THIS.
They kept drifting through the countries without much Church influence, but often between Italy and Japan, at midpoints. Neither of them talked about it very much, but words seemed to flow more smoothly when they were there.
(America reminded Amon too much of his father: England reminded Robin too much of Father Ramon. Without the ghosts of the past in front of them, both could speak clearly.)
This month, they were in Moscow. The Russian Orthodox Church did its best to keep the Roman Catholics out, and they were both heartily sick of making their own coffee.
Robin was fidgeting again, her fingers toying with the bread left on the table with their drinks, not quite rendering it into anything else.
But Robin, had by and large stopped fidgeting. So, Amon looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup and after a moment, she stopped, the bread half balled, and looked at him.
"Amon?"
He raised his eyebrow "What, Robin?"
She chewed on her lower lip. "Do you...miss it?" When he stares instead of any sort of real answer, she clarifies, "Solomon."
What she means is everyone else, but there's no need to go that far at all.
"Hm..." His cup clinked as he set it against the saucer as he stared off into the distance. "Sometimes, I do, a bit. But..."
"...but?" Her face is open, where it once would be wrinkled with the effort of assimilating the knowledge fully: she is letting it flow in, freely.
"But, I'm doing my job. Isn't that what matters?" He braces his fingers against the thick handle of the mug, but doesn't lift it, and after a moment they relax.
Robin tilts her head and smiles. "Mmm." And she tears the bread in half and starts to scatter the crumbs to the pigeons.
They kept drifting through the countries without much Church influence, but often between Italy and Japan, at midpoints. Neither of them talked about it very much, but words seemed to flow more smoothly when they were there.
(America reminded Amon too much of his father: England reminded Robin too much of Father Ramon. Without the ghosts of the past in front of them, both could speak clearly.)
This month, they were in Moscow. The Russian Orthodox Church did its best to keep the Roman Catholics out, and they were both heartily sick of making their own coffee.
Robin was fidgeting again, her fingers toying with the bread left on the table with their drinks, not quite rendering it into anything else.
But Robin, had by and large stopped fidgeting. So, Amon looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup and after a moment, she stopped, the bread half balled, and looked at him.
"Amon?"
He raised his eyebrow "What, Robin?"
She chewed on her lower lip. "Do you...miss it?" When he stares instead of any sort of real answer, she clarifies, "Solomon."
What she means is everyone else, but there's no need to go that far at all.
"Hm..." His cup clinked as he set it against the saucer as he stared off into the distance. "Sometimes, I do, a bit. But..."
"...but?" Her face is open, where it once would be wrinkled with the effort of assimilating the knowledge fully: she is letting it flow in, freely.
"But, I'm doing my job. Isn't that what matters?" He braces his fingers against the thick handle of the mug, but doesn't lift it, and after a moment they relax.
Robin tilts her head and smiles. "Mmm." And she tears the bread in half and starts to scatter the crumbs to the pigeons.