Tom
Natalie sits on the couch with her head in her hands, fingertips rubbing slow circles at her temples as she breathes in. Her expression is dim as she lifts her eyes to Tom and admits, "I don't think it's there. I don't know why-- I don't know /how/. But it's like your... your /time/ just cuts off the instant you walk through that hole."
Tom's fingers drag over the bridge of his nose, and then spread across the thick dark curves of his eyebrows as he exhales a slow breath. "Just not there," he says, his voice peculiarly level as he slants his gaze downward. His lips press closed. He looks unhappy.
"There's nothing I can-- um. Tug on," Natalie answers, spreading a hand as she lifts her head a bit in attempt to explain. "I can't always feel /what/ I'm tugging, or when, but I can always at least feel something. But with this... nothing. It just disappears."
Dropping his hands to let them rest loosely in his lap, Tom looks back up at her with a slight twist to his mouth, the expression one that bespeaks some irony. "Kind of funny when several years of your life can just disappear, huh?"
"Funny ha-ha or funny like a giant 'fuck you' from life?" Natalie wonders dryly.
"Not really a huge difference from where I'm sitting," Tom replies. He slaps an idle rhythm against his thighs, and then slouches back into the couch cushions.
Natalie's expression turns rueful as she studies Tom, quiet for a moment. She reaches for the bottle of juice she brought along for recharging, filling the silence with a swallow before she finally says, "I'm sorry. I really thought I'd be able to get it for you."
Tom lifts a hand and turns his fingers out in a gesture of acceptance -- or, more likely, of resignation. His chin lifts, head tipping backwards as his burnt-uneven hair rustles against the fabric of his sofa. "Thanks for trying." His voice sounds a little dryer than he probably means it to.
Natalie nods, her head dipping in silence as she watches him. Eventually she stirs, straightening on the couch and rolling her shoulders back in a stretch. Her voice is low when she wonders, "How are you doing with it? I mean... is it getting any-- I don't know. Better, I guess?"
His brows arch, and then he closes his eyes, his smile slight and sour. He says, "It's life," and then lifts his eyelids again, rolling his gaze off across his living room towards his obsessively clean kitchen. "It's not the end of the world." Tom's voice is low, and thoughtful. "In the end I still feel like /me/. I've just ... lost a little time. Changed a few plans."
"Do you?" Natalie wonders, her eyes darkly curious on Tom as his gaze rolls away. "That's good. I'd kind of wondered about that."
"This," Tom says, lifting his head again to glance back at her, "is me." The spread of his hand indicates his lean frame and its supple athleticism, currently draped with a whisper of defeatism in its slouch back into the cushions. "I saw what it was like for people who weren't themselves. I would have been this person anyway, one day. He might've been a little different than I am now. But there's no use dwelling on him."
"I can't decide if that sounds like a very solid way of dealing with the situation, or like hiding away from it," Natalie answers, her tone genuinely thoughtful as her lips twist a smile at him. "I suppose it doesn't matter so long as it keeps you going."
"I'm not hiding," Tom says. Vehemence comes with the forward shift of his lean, elbows dropped to his legs as he turns to more fully face her. "These fuckers have messed me around, but it's still /my life/. I'm not going to let them take any more of it from me than they already did."
Natalie's smile twitches a bit wider, almost nearing a grin at the heat of his reply. "Good," she says, lifting her eyes to meet his. Her lips part as if she's going to add something else, but whatever it is never materializes.
Tom's eyes flash, vivid green and sharp as he holds her gaze. After a heartbeat, he pushes himself up off the couch and starts to move; in need of a direction for the pace of his bare feet, he angles for the kitchen. "I'm almost halfway through my GED workbook," he says. From the prickle lingering in his voice, it is totally relevant to what he just said.
"Fuck," Natalie says, "That's got to be annoying. Does it go subject by subject or what?"
"Yeah," Tom grunts. He pulls a half-drunk water bottle from the refrigerator, closes it, and drifts back out into the living room again, holding it without drinking. "Different modules. I'm on advanced grammar in the language arts section." He slaps the bottle hard against his right palm. The liquid inside sloshes. "I'm pretty sure a sixth grader could do it."
"So it should be right about at your level then, huh?" The tease is gentle, a bit cautious as Natalie watches Tom and tips her own bottle - apple juice - back for a drink.
Tom glares at her. He doesn't seem to think that's very funny.
Natalie clears her throat slightly as she lowers her bottle and uh. Takes a different direction. "What else do you have left?"
"A lot of the reading comprehension stuff," Tom says. He kicks back with his heel against the counter, and then moves back toward his living room with restless aimlessness. "The social studies and science sections. I did all the math. When I finish the book I'm going to start looking for testing centers."
Math earns a lazy smile. Natalie's eyes track Tom across the living room, quantifying and charting that restless lack of aim. "Did they ask you to?" she wonders. "Or do you just want it?"
"Nobody asked me to." Tom unscrews the cap on the water bottle and takes a long swallow of its chilled contents. Waggling the bottle in his hand as he paces back towards his couch, he shakes his head. "I know what people think of how smart you are if you don't have a degree. I'm not going to make anybody take my word for it."
"Mmm," Natalie answers in non-answer. Her fingers tap against her own bottle, resting against her knee, and then she says, "A lot of people with degrees are still morons." Just in case Tom was confused in the matter. "It'll be good to have if-- when you're done here."
"Yeah, well, a /lot/ of people are morons," Tom replies in a low, growling voice. He thumps his water bottle against the arm of his couch, and hunkers in for a lean towards its back, eyeing her. "When I'm done here, I'll still have plenty of life left. Assuming I don't get shot or burned to death in the field or something."
"Assuming," Natalie agrees simply, quietly. She watches him as he eyes her.
Tom grins, though the expression is a little hard. "That's an assumption I have to make."
"I think most of us do," Natalie answers, without the grin.
Tom pushes himself straight again, only to sit back down in his corner of the couch with his water bottle braced at his knee. He says, "Yeah."
Natalie stirs at the fidget, her posture and expression carrying a light undertone of uncomfortable in the wake of that turn of conversation. She pushes herself to the edge of the couch and pauses, then stands. "I guess I should go," she says, shifting her juice to the opposite hand.
Tom has only just sat down again. He glances down the length of the couch to where she was sitting, and then rises again, abanding the plastic bottle to roll against the back of the sofa behind him. "Okay," he replies. He stands there and looks a little awkward for a moment.
Natalie finds the curve of a smile somewhere and plants it on her face as she adjusts the tip of her neck to look up at Tom, taller than her. After a beat of silence, she adds, "Bring back my vase when the daisies die, huh? It's the only one I have."
Tom gives her a slight smile in answer with the acknowledging duck of his head. "Uh-huh," he says. He scrubs a hand at the back of his neck, tipping a glance back towards his kitchen where the daisies currently live. Then he drops his hand and moves to walk toward the door and show her out. He says, "Well -- good night, I guess." Words may be a little less courteous than actions, there.
"Night, Tom," Natalie says in return, her own smile slightly but clearly amused at something in this parting. She takes her juice with her and steps through the door, toward home.
Continued ghost fail, cheery conversation.
Tom's fingers drag over the bridge of his nose, and then spread across the thick dark curves of his eyebrows as he exhales a slow breath. "Just not there," he says, his voice peculiarly level as he slants his gaze downward. His lips press closed. He looks unhappy.
"There's nothing I can-- um. Tug on," Natalie answers, spreading a hand as she lifts her head a bit in attempt to explain. "I can't always feel /what/ I'm tugging, or when, but I can always at least feel something. But with this... nothing. It just disappears."
Dropping his hands to let them rest loosely in his lap, Tom looks back up at her with a slight twist to his mouth, the expression one that bespeaks some irony. "Kind of funny when several years of your life can just disappear, huh?"
"Funny ha-ha or funny like a giant 'fuck you' from life?" Natalie wonders dryly.
"Not really a huge difference from where I'm sitting," Tom replies. He slaps an idle rhythm against his thighs, and then slouches back into the couch cushions.
Natalie's expression turns rueful as she studies Tom, quiet for a moment. She reaches for the bottle of juice she brought along for recharging, filling the silence with a swallow before she finally says, "I'm sorry. I really thought I'd be able to get it for you."
Tom lifts a hand and turns his fingers out in a gesture of acceptance -- or, more likely, of resignation. His chin lifts, head tipping backwards as his burnt-uneven hair rustles against the fabric of his sofa. "Thanks for trying." His voice sounds a little dryer than he probably means it to.
Natalie nods, her head dipping in silence as she watches him. Eventually she stirs, straightening on the couch and rolling her shoulders back in a stretch. Her voice is low when she wonders, "How are you doing with it? I mean... is it getting any-- I don't know. Better, I guess?"
His brows arch, and then he closes his eyes, his smile slight and sour. He says, "It's life," and then lifts his eyelids again, rolling his gaze off across his living room towards his obsessively clean kitchen. "It's not the end of the world." Tom's voice is low, and thoughtful. "In the end I still feel like /me/. I've just ... lost a little time. Changed a few plans."
"Do you?" Natalie wonders, her eyes darkly curious on Tom as his gaze rolls away. "That's good. I'd kind of wondered about that."
"This," Tom says, lifting his head again to glance back at her, "is me." The spread of his hand indicates his lean frame and its supple athleticism, currently draped with a whisper of defeatism in its slouch back into the cushions. "I saw what it was like for people who weren't themselves. I would have been this person anyway, one day. He might've been a little different than I am now. But there's no use dwelling on him."
"I can't decide if that sounds like a very solid way of dealing with the situation, or like hiding away from it," Natalie answers, her tone genuinely thoughtful as her lips twist a smile at him. "I suppose it doesn't matter so long as it keeps you going."
"I'm not hiding," Tom says. Vehemence comes with the forward shift of his lean, elbows dropped to his legs as he turns to more fully face her. "These fuckers have messed me around, but it's still /my life/. I'm not going to let them take any more of it from me than they already did."
Natalie's smile twitches a bit wider, almost nearing a grin at the heat of his reply. "Good," she says, lifting her eyes to meet his. Her lips part as if she's going to add something else, but whatever it is never materializes.
Tom's eyes flash, vivid green and sharp as he holds her gaze. After a heartbeat, he pushes himself up off the couch and starts to move; in need of a direction for the pace of his bare feet, he angles for the kitchen. "I'm almost halfway through my GED workbook," he says. From the prickle lingering in his voice, it is totally relevant to what he just said.
"Fuck," Natalie says, "That's got to be annoying. Does it go subject by subject or what?"
"Yeah," Tom grunts. He pulls a half-drunk water bottle from the refrigerator, closes it, and drifts back out into the living room again, holding it without drinking. "Different modules. I'm on advanced grammar in the language arts section." He slaps the bottle hard against his right palm. The liquid inside sloshes. "I'm pretty sure a sixth grader could do it."
"So it should be right about at your level then, huh?" The tease is gentle, a bit cautious as Natalie watches Tom and tips her own bottle - apple juice - back for a drink.
Tom glares at her. He doesn't seem to think that's very funny.
Natalie clears her throat slightly as she lowers her bottle and uh. Takes a different direction. "What else do you have left?"
"A lot of the reading comprehension stuff," Tom says. He kicks back with his heel against the counter, and then moves back toward his living room with restless aimlessness. "The social studies and science sections. I did all the math. When I finish the book I'm going to start looking for testing centers."
Math earns a lazy smile. Natalie's eyes track Tom across the living room, quantifying and charting that restless lack of aim. "Did they ask you to?" she wonders. "Or do you just want it?"
"Nobody asked me to." Tom unscrews the cap on the water bottle and takes a long swallow of its chilled contents. Waggling the bottle in his hand as he paces back towards his couch, he shakes his head. "I know what people think of how smart you are if you don't have a degree. I'm not going to make anybody take my word for it."
"Mmm," Natalie answers in non-answer. Her fingers tap against her own bottle, resting against her knee, and then she says, "A lot of people with degrees are still morons." Just in case Tom was confused in the matter. "It'll be good to have if-- when you're done here."
"Yeah, well, a /lot/ of people are morons," Tom replies in a low, growling voice. He thumps his water bottle against the arm of his couch, and hunkers in for a lean towards its back, eyeing her. "When I'm done here, I'll still have plenty of life left. Assuming I don't get shot or burned to death in the field or something."
"Assuming," Natalie agrees simply, quietly. She watches him as he eyes her.
Tom grins, though the expression is a little hard. "That's an assumption I have to make."
"I think most of us do," Natalie answers, without the grin.
Tom pushes himself straight again, only to sit back down in his corner of the couch with his water bottle braced at his knee. He says, "Yeah."
Natalie stirs at the fidget, her posture and expression carrying a light undertone of uncomfortable in the wake of that turn of conversation. She pushes herself to the edge of the couch and pauses, then stands. "I guess I should go," she says, shifting her juice to the opposite hand.
Tom has only just sat down again. He glances down the length of the couch to where she was sitting, and then rises again, abanding the plastic bottle to roll against the back of the sofa behind him. "Okay," he replies. He stands there and looks a little awkward for a moment.
Natalie finds the curve of a smile somewhere and plants it on her face as she adjusts the tip of her neck to look up at Tom, taller than her. After a beat of silence, she adds, "Bring back my vase when the daisies die, huh? It's the only one I have."
Tom gives her a slight smile in answer with the acknowledging duck of his head. "Uh-huh," he says. He scrubs a hand at the back of his neck, tipping a glance back towards his kitchen where the daisies currently live. Then he drops his hand and moves to walk toward the door and show her out. He says, "Well -- good night, I guess." Words may be a little less courteous than actions, there.
"Night, Tom," Natalie says in return, her own smile slightly but clearly amused at something in this parting. She takes her juice with her and steps through the door, toward home.
Continued ghost fail, cheery conversation.