She sighed and set aside her palette and stylus. Hands free, she ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it away from her face. "It's real, John. Very real."
"Yeah," Angela confirmed. "It's--" She realized she wasn't sure what to say and paused to take a breath. "My old boyfriend, Kirk. He was killed." Killed, dropped from a plane, ripped apart by coyotes. "I found out when his skull was left on our doorstep."
"Frell," John breathed. "Hey, Ange..." His hand hovered above her shoulder before settling there. "Maybe we should..." Do what? Bury it? At least then she wouldn't be in here looking at it like her heart was breaking. "Bury him."
She tried to give John a smile, but it was a weak attempt. "It's raining out, John. I'm not going to put him into a muddy, water-logged hole after everything else that's already happened to him."
"Fair enough," said John, but he didn't move his hand, moving to stand next to her. He wasn't sure quite what to say to make it better, but the last thing he wanted was to leave her alone with it. "How long ago was it?"
"Oh," she exhaled, long and thoughtful. She leaned fractionally into his touch, feeling tired but not enough to sit down. "Two and a half years now? Two years on the island. About six months before that. I've tried not to think about it." At all. Because that was how Angela worked. The farther away she could get from a problem, the less of a problem it was.
"Don't blame you." God knew there were dozens of things that John simply did not think about, for fear of losing what was left of his mind. "Not that this place can ever leave well enough the frell alone."
Angela shook her head, hands settling on her hips as she fidgeted for a second, taking a half step back and a half step forward. "No, it really can't. You know, this is over. This is something that happened years ago. I dealt with it then. I shouldn't have to deal with it now, right?"
"I reckon you can do what you want," said John. "You don't have to let the island push you around. Unless you're sprouting boobs." He eyed his own chest, then Angela's. "You know, when you're not used to them."
"You know, it's never fucked with me like that before," she said, now crossing her arms over her chest. "It behaves. It takes people from me, but it never screws with me like this."
"Yeah, I prefer the boobs," said John. "For, uh, lots of reasons." He'd been pretty damn lucky on that account. The first person he'd lost hadn't remembered him in the first place, and the other had forgotten he even wanted to know John long ago.
Angela, though...she'd lost a hell of a lot in her term on the island. And now the island was giving her people back, and giving them back dead. "You want a drink?"
Angela stopped, taking a second to realize her surroundings, realize where she was and who she was talking to, and that nothing she was doing would make this any better.
She laughed softly and shook her head. "I'd prefer boobs too," she said. "And I would love a drink."
"Good," John grinned, "'cause I got some good stuff squirreled away from that party with the soldiers. Not a lot, just about as much as you could fit in a couple Dixie cups, but I reckon it'll do."
He wanted for her answer, and when it didn't immediately come, walked closer to see her face. "Ange?"
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"Oh. It...from home, I guess."
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Angela, though...she'd lost a hell of a lot in her term on the island. And now the island was giving her people back, and giving them back dead. "You want a drink?"
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She laughed softly and shook her head. "I'd prefer boobs too," she said. "And I would love a drink."
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