[ He's not going to answer her question; she can tell as much from his casual side-step of it. Which, okay. That's fine. They're still building trust, so of course he wouldn't divulge that information to her. But she knows he will be leaving, and likely sooner rather than later since she's found him. She just has hope they can come to an understanding before he disappears again.
It's that thought that convinces her to jump straight into things. She's asking him for secrets — it's only fair that she shares one of her own. So, in a way that's too casual to actually be casual, she lays a piece of her soul at his feet. ]
[ Booker doesn't respond to her first comment, neither confirming nor denying — not at first, anyway. Maybe he's waiting for the hammer to fall, the troops to arrive, the shots to fire.
And when he finds himself still walking, the young woman keeping pace alongside him, that's the surprising part.
So, okay. He allows himself a question, an admission of fact, and takes note of the tense in her second statement. ]
[ It's the first admission he's made acknowledging that she was right about him. Up until this point, he could have just been some super paranoid guy who changes his address ridiculously often. Now... He's what she thought. At least, in part. There's always more to the story, details that never openly shared, but it's a start. ]
Some people called her that. To everyone else, it certainly seemed like it.
[ Even all these years later, it's still hard to talk about her mother. Her mom, the woman who should have been able to raise her. The caring figure she'd been Before and the broken thing she'd become After. It hurts even now. ]
[ Booker doesn't know how it works, how some people 'have the gift' (this is thought wryly) while others don't. It isn't genetic, that's for certain. If it were, perhaps Jean-Pierre would —
Well.
But the gears in his head are turning, trying to connect the dots between mother and daughter, whether that strange ability she'd demonstrated earlier is somehow connected to the randomness of immortality.
He's currently working with zero theories and a few more questions in its place. ]
[ It's all she can think to say, just a verbal acknowledgment of his words that make her heart ache with old grief so recently renewed. The first time she'd watched her mother die, it had been amidst the horrible revelation of how broken the woman had become in the wake of her treatment by Hydra. Jiaying had tried to kill countless innocent humans in the pursuit of protecting Inhumans, and she'd been willing to murder her own daughter in the process. But the second time she'd watched her mother die, she'd been introduced to the kind and generous woman she'd always been before, who loved her daughter with all her heart and would do anything to protect her.
Daisy owes so much of who she is to her mother. Her Inhuman genes had been passed down, granting Daisy a heritage she holds as so very precious. And she has to believe that some of her own boundless compassion came from her mother — and her father, at that. Hydra had torn her family apart, but she still carries them with her always.
She silent for a few moments, struggling to find something else to say in the wake of her grief, but then she sees a sign in the near distance and nods toward the building. ]
[ Booker is perfectly fine to continue on in silence for the rest of the time it takes to get to the small restaurant, and he chooses not to read into the quiet or the way the young woman's voice seems to soften at the edge of that one word.
One might say he has a knack for somehow being drawn to the grieving, due to his own deep (deep) seeded sorrow — but maybe it's simply that there are so many of them wandering around the world, lost in different ways it's easier than he thinks to find someone else like him.
The sign up ahead is a good distraction as any and as they approach the building, which has certainly seen better days, Booker simply waves a hand.
After you.
It's clear that the building might once have been attractive — years ago, in a former life perhaps — remnants of bright crimson exterior paint now dulled to a dirty reddish-orange, coming off in flakes to reveal chipped concrete beneath. The restaurant's sign in bright neon hums loudly in the otherwise quiet side street, but inside is the continuous sound of clinking plates, chopsticks, and chatter. It's quiet enough to hold a conversation over a small table of dumplings, but loud enough not to be overheard. People here leave each other alone, likely because the common clientele value their privacy.
Booker trails behind the young woman, lifting a hand to indicate a table for two. A server waves them towards a spot near the back. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ He's not going to answer her question; she can tell as much from his casual side-step of it. Which, okay. That's fine. They're still building trust, so of course he wouldn't divulge that information to her. But she knows he will be leaving, and likely sooner rather than later since she's found him. She just has hope they can come to an understanding before he disappears again.
It's that thought that convinces her to jump straight into things. She's asking him for secrets — it's only fair that she shares one of her own. So, in a way that's too casual to actually be casual, she lays a piece of her soul at his feet. ]
My mother didn't either.
no subject
And when he finds himself still walking, the young woman keeping pace alongside him, that's the surprising part.
So, okay. He allows himself a question, an admission of fact, and takes note of the tense in her second statement. ]
She was an immortal?
no subject
Some people called her that. To everyone else, it certainly seemed like it.
[ Even all these years later, it's still hard to talk about her mother. Her mom, the woman who should have been able to raise her. The caring figure she'd been Before and the broken thing she'd become After. It hurts even now. ]
no subject
[ Booker doesn't know how it works, how some people 'have the gift' (this is thought wryly) while others don't. It isn't genetic, that's for certain. If it were, perhaps Jean-Pierre would —
Well.
But the gears in his head are turning, trying to connect the dots between mother and daughter, whether that strange ability she'd demonstrated earlier is somehow connected to the randomness of immortality.
He's currently working with zero theories and a few more questions in its place. ]
'Nothing that lives lives forever.'
no subject
[ It's all she can think to say, just a verbal acknowledgment of his words that make her heart ache with old grief so recently renewed. The first time she'd watched her mother die, it had been amidst the horrible revelation of how broken the woman had become in the wake of her treatment by Hydra. Jiaying had tried to kill countless innocent humans in the pursuit of protecting Inhumans, and she'd been willing to murder her own daughter in the process. But the second time she'd watched her mother die, she'd been introduced to the kind and generous woman she'd always been before, who loved her daughter with all her heart and would do anything to protect her.
Daisy owes so much of who she is to her mother. Her Inhuman genes had been passed down, granting Daisy a heritage she holds as so very precious. And she has to believe that some of her own boundless compassion came from her mother — and her father, at that. Hydra had torn her family apart, but she still carries them with her always.
She silent for a few moments, struggling to find something else to say in the wake of her grief, but then she sees a sign in the near distance and nods toward the building. ]
Is that the place?
no subject
One might say he has a knack for somehow being drawn to the grieving, due to his own deep (deep) seeded sorrow — but maybe it's simply that there are so many of them wandering around the world, lost in different ways it's easier than he thinks to find someone else like him.
The sign up ahead is a good distraction as any and as they approach the building, which has certainly seen better days, Booker simply waves a hand.
After you.
It's clear that the building might once have been attractive — years ago, in a former life perhaps — remnants of bright crimson exterior paint now dulled to a dirty reddish-orange, coming off in flakes to reveal chipped concrete beneath. The restaurant's sign in bright neon hums loudly in the otherwise quiet side street, but inside is the continuous sound of clinking plates, chopsticks, and chatter. It's quiet enough to hold a conversation over a small table of dumplings, but loud enough not to be overheard. People here leave each other alone, likely because the common clientele value their privacy.
Booker trails behind the young woman, lifting a hand to indicate a table for two. A server waves them towards a spot near the back. ]