[ he doesn't expect booker to see any softness in joe's lost sister, booker never knew quỳnh. it isn't said harshly or with recrimination, merely a fact. ]
Once she found a macaque that would steal all of Nicky's coin and attempt to make off with his sword. She named him Piccolo Nicolò, had a hat fitted for him that matched Nicky's.
[ despite the doubt and wariness that seems determinedly settled between them like a wall of joe's own making, the story comes with familiar ease and an even more familiar pinched finger gesture. tiny tiny. so small. ]
[ All Booker can do is imagine the Quynh that Joe speaks of, like he's placing the woman he's only mildly familiar with, someone he associates with madness and eternal drowning, into the bright shape of someone that doesn't quite fit and hoping it'll work anyway.
It doesn't, of course, but he likes the story.
His mouth quirks in amusement, even, up until the moment he feels guilty for doing so — like smiling is simply something he doesn't have a right to do in front of Joe, and it isn't, and his expression sobers again. ]
She loved you both.
[ Loved Andy too, no doubt. And maybe he can't see it in the dreams he has of her, but he can hear it in the fond way Joe speaks of her.
Of course, love has always been something of a slow poison for Booker, but he remembers when it had been good too. ]
She loved us all, the way Andy does. [ a soft snort of a laugh. ] Like a knife.
[ she and andy loved each other... differently... but that is neither here nor there and definitely not joe's story to tell. ]
We were a family. When we lost her it was like losing a limb. [ complete with the phantom pain of knowing that she was out there and they simply couldn't reach her. and then there was the loss, when they had finally — not given up, not really, but at some point searching had become untenable. it wasn't until booker that they knew for sure that she was still alive.
that was a different kind of grief. ]
We were broken when we found you. Maybe that is why... we couldn't see you were drowning, too.
[ the betrayal was booker's doing, but part of joe's grief and rage stems from feeling like they were all to blame, that they hadn't done enough, that they weren't enough. the guilt and terror eats at him, devolving into an anger that pools in his belly like acid, but it's born of loss and grief. ]
[ He isn't sure what to say that might mean anything.
Booker had been struggling to keep afloat within his own ocean of grief for so long, it made him willfully blind to seeing that the others had been suffering too. All of that outward love and the happiness was something he simply refused to accept out of spite, and Nicky and Joe having one another felt like a carrot dangled before the horse. Something he could never have again. He couldn't see it any other way, so it was easy enough to miss that they had been struggling with their own losses too.
And Andy — well, he'd seen her grieving, saw it in the way she would drink with him, would indulge in the bitterness and resentment he had for much of the world and for life, and he welcomed it instead because it was what he felt too; Misery loves company and all that.
All that time, and only now in their pain could he see the truth — like pain speaking to pain. It was familiar. It was almost a kind of sick comfort for himself. But how horrible that their suffering was the only way he could gain clarity. Not like this, Book.
Merde.
He swallows the thickness in his throat, buying himself a little time to say something. Finally, a quiet: ] Perhaps there is another artwork I might look at.
[ part of joe is almost glad booker doesn't say anything. it's so easy for joe to swing to anger, it's so easy for joe to be pissed at him, if booker did something like apologize again, joe would lose his shit. he doesn't want any more apologies because they're never for the right thing.
he moves without speaking, drawing them up the stairs to where the physical works are. there is more mixed media, some half digital, half physical, and some paintings on canvas or wood or glass. all of it is past their own time, though some are — to this world — hundreds of years old and meticulously preserved. if joe thought he could handle seeing booker for eight hours a day, he would suggest a job in art preservation. booker's eye for detail and meticulous forgeries would lend well to restoration and preservation — he couldn't do worse than the ecce homo.
joe loves that fucking jesus so much.
he stops in front of a canvas, pure white with a dash of red across it like the artist had meant to paint a dot and sneezed and their arm had jerked across the canvas. ]
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no subject
[ he doesn't expect booker to see any softness in joe's lost sister, booker never knew quỳnh. it isn't said harshly or with recrimination, merely a fact. ]
Once she found a macaque that would steal all of Nicky's coin and attempt to make off with his sword. She named him Piccolo Nicolò, had a hat fitted for him that matched Nicky's.
[ despite the doubt and wariness that seems determinedly settled between them like a wall of joe's own making, the story comes with familiar ease and an even more familiar pinched finger gesture. tiny tiny. so small. ]
no subject
It doesn't, of course, but he likes the story.
His mouth quirks in amusement, even, up until the moment he feels guilty for doing so — like smiling is simply something he doesn't have a right to do in front of Joe, and it isn't, and his expression sobers again. ]
She loved you both.
[ Loved Andy too, no doubt. And maybe he can't see it in the dreams he has of her, but he can hear it in the fond way Joe speaks of her.
Of course, love has always been something of a slow poison for Booker, but he remembers when it had been good too. ]
no subject
[ she and andy loved each other... differently... but that is neither here nor there and definitely not joe's story to tell. ]
We were a family. When we lost her it was like losing a limb. [ complete with the phantom pain of knowing that she was out there and they simply couldn't reach her. and then there was the loss, when they had finally — not given up, not really, but at some point searching had become untenable. it wasn't until booker that they knew for sure that she was still alive.
that was a different kind of grief. ]
We were broken when we found you. Maybe that is why... we couldn't see you were drowning, too.
[ the betrayal was booker's doing, but part of joe's grief and rage stems from feeling like they were all to blame, that they hadn't done enough, that they weren't enough. the guilt and terror eats at him, devolving into an anger that pools in his belly like acid, but it's born of loss and grief. ]
no subject
Booker had been struggling to keep afloat within his own ocean of grief for so long, it made him willfully blind to seeing that the others had been suffering too. All of that outward love and the happiness was something he simply refused to accept out of spite, and Nicky and Joe having one another felt like a carrot dangled before the horse. Something he could never have again. He couldn't see it any other way, so it was easy enough to miss that they had been struggling with their own losses too.
And Andy — well, he'd seen her grieving, saw it in the way she would drink with him, would indulge in the bitterness and resentment he had for much of the world and for life, and he welcomed it instead because it was what he felt too; Misery loves company and all that.
All that time, and only now in their pain could he see the truth — like pain speaking to pain. It was familiar. It was almost a kind of sick comfort for himself. But how horrible that their suffering was the only way he could gain clarity. Not like this, Book.
Merde.
He swallows the thickness in his throat, buying himself a little time to say something. Finally, a quiet: ] Perhaps there is another artwork I might look at.
no subject
he moves without speaking, drawing them up the stairs to where the physical works are. there is more mixed media, some half digital, half physical, and some paintings on canvas or wood or glass. all of it is past their own time, though some are — to this world — hundreds of years old and meticulously preserved. if joe thought he could handle seeing booker for eight hours a day, he would suggest a job in art preservation. booker's eye for detail and meticulous forgeries would lend well to restoration and preservation — he couldn't do worse than the ecce homo.
joe loves that fucking jesus so much.
he stops in front of a canvas, pure white with a dash of red across it like the artist had meant to paint a dot and sneezed and their arm had jerked across the canvas. ]
Thoughts?