[she can barely croak a word out, so utterly flummoxed by this reveal. Soap opera stars at least get their scripts in advance for such things -- that way they can gasp and react in the prettiest, most camera-friendly ways possible. same goes for the simpering, whimpering fools in fiction, as there's rarely an ugly cry to ruin the perfect reunion.
Cecelia, who used to consume that stuff as if it were required to live, who used to daydream about her own heartfelt reunions, even script a few in her day, can't possibly think of any of it. not when he's gone and defied prophecy like this!
she starts to weep, her legs giving way and sending her to the floor as she tries to stop herself, face in her hands.]
[He's there to catch her, though he's not going to be staying up. This act of heroism, of actively sweeping her into his arms, is brought to you by the ever helpful force of gravity, rather than any strength in his body. But hey, the intent is there.]
[And so he's holding her slightly against himself, where she can feel the tightly corded muscles occasionally punctuated by the jab of bone here and there. He's lost so much of himself but yet there was still so much of him left; his little idiosyncrosies, his warmth, his outlook.]
Yeah...Yeah it's me...
M'back.
[He pets her hair a bit, half expecting a slap or a pointed jab to his chest or some torrent of anger to fly at him. He'd deserve it, after all. It's been months and he'd never even contacted her.]
[idiot! stupid fool idiot! how can you be alive?! she wants very much to rage a bit, and it shows in the gradual-yet-noticable spike in her temperature, but as far as interrogations go? she can't muster it. she can only hang onto him and cry -- cry for him, for what had happened, for what she put up with for months, months not knowing and dreading the worst!
how is he here when the script states he should be well and properly dead?
she needs a few minutes to let cocktail of anguish and shock and relief out, because the longer he holds her means it's less likely she's having some kind of very visceral hallucination. the world practically exploded some months ago -- it's not unlikely that radiation finally got to her brain!
eventually, though, she has enough wits about her to withdraw, bringing her hands up to brush hair out of his face and actually take the sight of him in, almost moved to crying all over again. who did this to him?]
There's a very...very long explanation for all of this. Isn't there.
[because there has to be; he has no other excuse to show up after all this time, looking like this.]
R-right...of course. [of course... she releases him and gets to her feet, wiping at her eyes.] Let's...get you cleaned off and in a, a more livable state. Yes. Can you walk? Or should I fetch someone...
[of course she can...and of course she will. and along the way, she'll count every wince and waver, hating that they're there. Darin's not supposed to be so feeble -- even when he'd be beaten to a pulp for this or that, he'd still hobble around with a spring in his step.
at least, her memory convinces her otherwise.
in any case, she leads the way to her home, the walk being one of the longest she'd ever had. inside, though, she feels more in control of things -- she conjured the damn place, after all -- and moves swiftly and with earnest, betraying any cool she may have been able to convey in reining her expression in now that the ugly crying is done with.
she leaves him lingering for a bit so she can draw a bath and bustle about a bit before leading him over there. the faster she moves, the less likely she is to get overwhelmed by feelings again.]
In here. Clean off. Don't--don't...drown...you can manage that, yes? There's some clean things to put on. [and now that he's practically a skeleton, they'll likely fit...?]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[she can barely croak a word out, so utterly flummoxed by this reveal. Soap opera stars at least get their scripts in advance for such things -- that way they can gasp and react in the prettiest, most camera-friendly ways possible. same goes for the simpering, whimpering fools in fiction, as there's rarely an ugly cry to ruin the perfect reunion.
Cecelia, who used to consume that stuff as if it were required to live, who used to daydream about her own heartfelt reunions, even script a few in her day, can't possibly think of any of it. not when he's gone and defied prophecy like this!
she starts to weep, her legs giving way and sending her to the floor as she tries to stop herself, face in her hands.]
no subject
[And so he's holding her slightly against himself, where she can feel the tightly corded muscles occasionally punctuated by the jab of bone here and there. He's lost so much of himself but yet there was still so much of him left; his little idiosyncrosies, his warmth, his outlook.]
Yeah...Yeah it's me...
M'back.
[He pets her hair a bit, half expecting a slap or a pointed jab to his chest or some torrent of anger to fly at him. He'd deserve it, after all. It's been months and he'd never even contacted her.]
no subject
how is he here when the script states he should be well and properly dead?
she needs a few minutes to let cocktail of anguish and shock and relief out, because the longer he holds her means it's less likely she's having some kind of very visceral hallucination. the world practically exploded some months ago -- it's not unlikely that radiation finally got to her brain!
eventually, though, she has enough wits about her to withdraw, bringing her hands up to brush hair out of his face and actually take the sight of him in, almost moved to crying all over again. who did this to him?]
There's a very...very long explanation for all of this. Isn't there.
[because there has to be; he has no other excuse to show up after all this time, looking like this.]
no subject
The only thing really long about it is the amount of time it took...it's actually disappointingly simple...
[He looks around, scratching idly at his scruff.]
I hate to ask but...think I could freshen up a bit before I get into the sordid details...?
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[He holds her out to arms' length and reaches for his walking stick. Once it's planted, he practically climbs it all the way back up to his feet.]
Sorry...think you can lead the way?
no subject
at least, her memory convinces her otherwise.
in any case, she leads the way to her home, the walk being one of the longest she'd ever had. inside, though, she feels more in control of things -- she conjured the damn place, after all -- and moves swiftly and with earnest, betraying any cool she may have been able to convey in reining her expression in now that the ugly crying is done with.
she leaves him lingering for a bit so she can draw a bath and bustle about a bit before leading him over there. the faster she moves, the less likely she is to get overwhelmed by feelings again.]
In here. Clean off. Don't--don't...drown...you can manage that, yes? There's some clean things to put on. [and now that he's practically a skeleton, they'll likely fit...?]