Table B. 004: Heavy [Spike, Hungary, implied Spike - > Julia]
He's had this conversation once before. Only once. In a place like this, filled with smoke to cover up the words. Not to be repeated, or spoken higher, because that would invite disaster. Would invite doubts. And these aren't doubts yet. Just a question. The kind of question you can't ask yourself, because you'd be afraid of the answer you'd get. So you field it to a friend. Someone impartial. She did, once upon a time, in a memory filled with smoke that he sees as clear as day. Liz asks the same question spoken in a different way. The names are different. The place is different, or so the buzzing little lights say. The time is different. But in the ways that matter, it's the same.
He remembers what he said last time. A lie. The wrong answer. Because to tell the truth would have revealed too much. Would've made him have to answer questions of his own. Ones that had no right answer. Ones he almost didn't even have to ask. She was like air, floating in this world of their's. She replaced the smoke. Made everything clear like cut crystal. And he knew, more than anything, that if he answered the question, the air would be taken away. And he knew, more than anything, that he'd never be able to breathe again. Literally, but more than that. He answers, eventually, more to the smoke than to the air, more to the memory than to her. Mutters something into the music. Not quite a joke, but not quite the truth. He could never joke around her, and that was the answer. Just not the right one.
Liz asks, full of air. He answers, full of smoke. He says, "If you don't like it, why stick around?"
[In response to Cookie's latest drabble, Go. Hungary used with permission.]