[He glances down at the hand on his arm, opening and closing his mouth like a waylaid fish. Then he looks back up at her.]
I think you're right. It was—just such an unexpected thing to happen. Here, of all places, do you see? I wanted to thank them, but, uh. If they wanted me to know...
[He bites his lip, chewing on it gently, then lifts the scarf from the table and wraps it round his neck, turning back to her. It feels soft and rather heavy, and the splotchy grey turns out to be a good colour on him.] What do you think?
[She smiles reassuringly and nods in agreement-- if they wanted him to know, they would've said something, surely. But mostly likely it seemed like they wanted to do a good deed just to do a good deed, no thanks necessary.
Winnie steps back when he takes up the scarf, eyeing him critically before fussing with the scarf some to make sure it lays right.] It looks wonderful on you, Simon. The colour works for you. [She smiles, pleased, and fusses with the scarf a little again.]
I'm so happy for you, Simon. You deserve good things like this.
[His fingers twist gently in the scarf, spoiling all her painstaking arrangements, and she smiles up at him, and he sighs a little—thoughtful, not sad. So strange to have anyone fuss around him like this—not just Winnie, but the mysterious giftgiver, and everyone else who's quietly watching his back. He's not used to it at all.
And she seems so much happier about the gift than he feels. Maybe because it's her nature to bubble, the way it used to be his. He wonders how long she'll stay that way; how long it will be before all this gets the better of her. He knows she worries, after all; she's not quite oblivious. But he doesn't comment.]
I'm not so sure. But thank you, Winnie. [Turning away from her, he picks up the socks and goes to fold them in his locker.]
Do you, uh, really think this colour works on me? [It's not so unlike the grey of the uniforms—and yes, he's changing the subject.]
[Winnie hums in agreement and nods] It works for you! It matches your eyes. But you could also do with some color, I think... Blue and white would look nice too, I think. Green not so much...
[She muses over it.] I can't see you wearing anything crazy like... canary yellow. [She tries to imagine it, actually, and just ends up grinning and smothering her chuckles behind her hand.]
[Closing the locker up, he gives her another thoughtful look; he's got the words by now, but his heart isn't in them.] Come on, now. I could be a canary. The best canary.
[Caged birds, after all, don't do anything; they don't endanger anyone. They just sit and sing and curl their clawed feet around their perch. He comes back and sits at the table.]
I'm not sure yellow would work for you. Your hair.
Can you sing? You should take up some singing or whistling, and then I can have a better verdict. [She puts her lips together and attempts a whistle, but all she can manage is a blowing noise. Welp. She tries a few more times before giving up with a shrug and a shake of her head.]
Apparently I cannot be a canary either. But no, yellow doesn't work well for me, and I on't particularly like the colour much either. I prefer green, pink, or white. I wear-- wore-- a lot of white actually, with patterns and things. I think I like those best of all.
[He's still pulling gently at the scarf, but his hand freezes at the suggestion that he should sing; he stares at her.] All right. Perhaps I'll give up on the—canary ambition.
White I can see you in. Or black, for that matter. [And either would mean she wasn't here, pretty much, which would be A++ in his book.] Maybe a bit depressing, that.
Black is usually used for mourning, though. [She's not sure how comfortable she'd be wearing entirely back, but it does make her think of home again and she smiles a tad wistfully.] My father wears it often. Wore it often. [She pauses and then laughs a little.]
Wears. I have to believe that much at least. [Winnie clasps her hands in front of her and plays with her sleeves.] I just wish I could write home again, even just one letter.
I'm not so sure. I think we're better lost. I wouldn't, uh. [Yuki, of course. Simon bows his head and coughs a little, composing himself.] Uh. Sorry. Not knowing is bad, of course, but being at home, and knowing about all of this—no, I'm not so sure.
[He's repeating himself. He's surprised, though, by her mention of her father. He'd read about her mother, and remembered because they had it in common. But he'd imagined something more like his own situation.]
Why don't you sit down? [And he nods across the table, at the bench opposite.]
[Winnie opens and closes her mouth a moment, trying to decide what to say when he offers her a seat.]
--Oh, yes, of course. Thank you. [She takes a seat with an odd movement like she's tucking skirts beneath her as she sits; there's a pause once she realizes what she's done and she laughs.] I can't seem to break that habit.
[Elbows resting on the table, chin resting on the back of her clasped hands, she looks off at the edge of the table, thinking.] I'm sure my friends know where I've gone and what to do in my absence, and I know they'll take care of Father, but it's... a tad lonely. The texting thing is convenient, but I miss writing letters by hand.
[Which sounds a tad unrelated to the whole being lonely thing, but it's really just one more odd thing to contend with in this place.]
[He notices the sweep of her hand, but doesn't quite realise what she's doing, never having worn a heavy skirt himself. But he does that thing that passes for smiling again, the tiniest twitch of his eyebrows and twist of his mouth.]
I know what you mean, I think. I liked letters, even if they were the most perfunctory bloody things. [Language, Simon.] I used to write so many. Just tradition. [He still wrote to his father regularly right until he was taken—short little updates, vague and in brief, as good as lies. He's sure they all wound up in the paper shredder, since all he is to his father is a bloodline. Probably.]
You get on well with him, your father? [Juuust a little envious.]
[The language gives him one of those looks of amused disapproval, but she lets it pass without comment. She's heard far worse from people around camp lately.
She listens to him and smiles, able to see Simon carefully bowed over a piece of paper to write--in her mind he has a quill, and probably a ruler with which to measure all the sides and the margins to make sure it's all in proper order; she suspects he might be the type to get anxious and press too hard and rip the paper too.
The question makes her huff a laugh through her nose and her smile grows fond and distant.] Very much. My mother-- [Winnie pauses, collects herself, and continues. Even after all this time it's a bit difficult, though she only knew her mother through her father's stories.] My mother died in childbirth-- common, unfortunately.
My father loved her very much, and I was all he had left of her. I suppose that made him a tad overprotective-- I almost never went outside or greeted visitors or anything like that. But my father was always very kind, I never really felt caged in or anything until I grew older-- but I've never resented him for it. Really, I'm thankful.
[If it had been discovered, after all, they would have taken her away and her life would have been terribly, drastically, different. If she had to analyze it she can probably figure that that sort of environment was why she never quite 'grew up'] It wasn't until I was growing up with Agnes that I realized there was an entire world outside my home that I had no reason not to see.
[Winnie falls quiet for a moment and then smiles again, looking to Simon] He used to tuck me into bed and read me all sorts of stories and poems. Even before I left I would meet him in his study before I went to bed, and he'd tell me a story-- they're almost always ones I've heard before, but when he tells them it's like I'm hearing it for the first time all over again. I always felt so inspired by those stories.
[As she tells her story, Simon listens with his face resting on one hand. It's like hearing two complex musical pieces played together, not quite similar—there's harmony, when she talks about her mother, and strangely about Agnes. And there's violent discord, when she talks about her father and his stories, and what they'd meant to her.
He's not quite expressionless, if you know how to look; everything has been turned down almost to nothing, but a lot is still there, a subtle engraving of emotion and thought instead of his old bright brush strokes. He ends up blinking slowly across the table, folding his hands back in his lap.]
We have—a surprising amount in common, you and I. Don't you think so? [What an admission, after he'd as good as lied to her the first time they spoke. He wonders if she's read his file by now, when she wouldn't before.]
My mother. She, ah, died, the same way yours did. [He has the most awful misgiving about mentioning this at all. But Gliese had known, had mentioned it to him, and he wants to cleanse the fact of it.] I was the youngest. The last.
[Which is to say, he killed her. But if it was the same for Winnie, who hasn't mentioned brothers or sisters, she doesn't seem to think so. The fact is vertiginous.]
Do we? [She smiles a bit, because no she's (thankfully?) refused to read up on anyone's files. If there was something she need to know, she could wait until she befriended a person and they told her themselves; that was how she chose to look at it.
So she listens intently and nods in understanding, but for a moment she doesn't say much as she thinks.] It's strange. I get sad, of course, when i think of it, but... I have nothing but portraits to remember her by. I miss her, but there's nothing to really miss when I never knew her in the first place.
[Winnie wonders if that sounds callous and she brings her hands together to two twist anxiously on top of the table.] I think I miss the memory of her and the idea of her, of what could have been, more than anything. I don't know what would have happened if she'd survived, and I don't know if, given the choice, I'd choose that over the life I have now.
[Would they have given her away to the government? Would the officials had told them, "you're young and can have other children, you don't need this one" like she suspected they did to many couples? Or would they have worked together to keep her secret, locked away in some far tower like the princesses from her stories?
Winnie gives that humorless chuckle again and bows her head, shaking it at herself.] I suppose that sounds terrible. [After a moment he asks:] Do you get along with your father? Your siblings?
We've never been close. I suppose that's for the best, now. [And it's a question of how much he wants to reveal, isn't it? How much of what he's hidden for so long he's prepared to share?
It turns out it isn't very much. He knows there's more to what she's saying; he's got an unfair advantage, in that he is prepared to poke through everyone's records—he had a few misgivings at first, but he's quickly come to see it as just part of surviving.] It was just my sister and my father, for the most part. But they weren't, ah, family. Just people I lived with. Angry, or—or spiteful. Sad.
[The scarf is tugging again; down in his lap, his hands are twisting. It's not something he can ever change.] Are you really happy with your life? As it is now? You should give lessons, if you are.
[She's about to question that-- angry or spiteful? Why on earth?-- but she understands only seconds after the questions pop into her head. The youngest, and his mother died.
She doesn't say 'I'm sorry,' because at this point those words sound cheap, but she sympathizes.] Agnes is the closest I've had to a sibling, but... I wish I'd had a brother like you. [Winnie means it too, the sincerity clear in her voice.
His next question makes her pause again and she sits back some, looking up towards the ceiling in thought. Winnie can think of many little things she would have liked to change, but when she puts it all together...] Yes. [There's no hesitation and she lowers her gaze to smile at Simon.] I'm very happy. I have Agnes and Mortimer, and my father. I have a purpose and a goal I'm driving for. I'm able to see and learn things I never would have if I'd stayed inside all my life. Maybe the circumstances that pushed me to question it are painful, and of course I wish they were less so, but... I think that pain was necessary. I still wouldn't change it.
[Winnie thinks on it again and then nods as if she's reached a decision that what she's said is true.] I don't know what lessons I could give on it. It's about finding something to focus on, changing your perspective... If I were to list all the bad things that have happened to me, and focus only on those, I could easily say my life was a bad one and unhappy. But I think of the people I've met and helped, and of all the good that came with every bit of pain and think 'It was worth it.'
[The first thing she says catches him by surprise, and he responds in just the way that's got him into so much trouble. He reacts first, tucking his head down, comforted out of proportion to what she's said. Then reason catches up with him, and reminds him of the downsides of her nature, that she'd likely say the same thing to almost anyone.
But that first emotional impression lingers; he's still touched by it. It still counts. When he looks back up, though, listening, his lips have pinched together; she's missed the point he was trying to make.]
I have good memories. Of course I do. [He does; he knows he does. He just ... can't quite remember them, placed on the spot and asked to recall them. Or they're seen through a dark lens, leached of all their colour and warmth. Or they're tainted beyond repair, and can't count any longer. He doesn't know how she does it, and yet the last thing he wants is for her to stop so obsessively seeing the bright side of everything. But it's inevitable.] I just—
For all that your life before was good, on the whole, you are here now. Do you understand me? I—how do you do it?
[Winnie hums thoughtfully, wondering if there was something beneath the line of questioning that she wasn't understanding. Was he looking for a specific answer or guidance that she simply couldn't give him?] I did volunteer to be here...
[A mumble, more to remind him than an actual answer, but she shakes her head.] I don't know. I just know everything will work out in the end, because it has to. I just keep that thought in mind and... put one foot in front of the other.
[She wants to give him the right answer, but it's hard when she has no idea what it would be, or what he's looking for.] Is something wrong, Simon?
Of course you did. I remember you saying. [It's not quite that he'd forgotten; he knows most did volunteer. It's just so hard to picture.
Closing his hands on the scarf again, he counts backwards, and goes over snatches of songs and poetry to calm himself. One of them's the poem she gave him, back before the library. By now, he knows it by heart, every word and rhyme and rhythm.]
"I have not winced nor cried aloud". Do you remember? It's the same thing, I think.
I remember. "Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed." [She's still completely lost on what he's trying to talk about, but she remembers how upset he'd been over the story/riddle she'd told just prior to the poem too.
She leans across the table to touch his arm and speak sincerely.] It's not much-- I can't give you what you're looking for, I think, but I'm here to listen if you need it. I am here for you.
[And he glances down at her hand on his arm, and back up to her. He's not going to crack and confess himself, all the things that are swirling inside him and eating him up. Even if he'd been raised that way, he doesn't believe it falls within his contract; he doesn't want to put ideas into anyone else's head.
Memories, they'd been talking about. Memories of home. His head spins when he tries to think about it, images of closer family than his own and school and work and friends all mixed together, so he just thanks her.] You're a ridiculously good person, despite everything. And if I ever need to talk about it all—I will come to you. But not today.
Are you sure I can't get you something? A glass of water, maybe? I wish we had tea. [He's changing the subject, with a nervous patter of hospitality.]
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I think you're right. It was—just such an unexpected thing to happen. Here, of all places, do you see? I wanted to thank them, but, uh. If they wanted me to know...
[He bites his lip, chewing on it gently, then lifts the scarf from the table and wraps it round his neck, turning back to her. It feels soft and rather heavy, and the splotchy grey turns out to be a good colour on him.] What do you think?
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Winnie steps back when he takes up the scarf, eyeing him critically before fussing with the scarf some to make sure it lays right.] It looks wonderful on you, Simon. The colour works for you. [She smiles, pleased, and fusses with the scarf a little again.]
I'm so happy for you, Simon. You deserve good things like this.
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And she seems so much happier about the gift than he feels. Maybe because it's her nature to bubble, the way it used to be his. He wonders how long she'll stay that way; how long it will be before all this gets the better of her. He knows she worries, after all; she's not quite oblivious. But he doesn't comment.]
I'm not so sure. But thank you, Winnie. [Turning away from her, he picks up the socks and goes to fold them in his locker.]
Do you, uh, really think this colour works on me? [It's not so unlike the grey of the uniforms—and yes, he's changing the subject.]
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[She muses over it.] I can't see you wearing anything crazy like... canary yellow. [She tries to imagine it, actually, and just ends up grinning and smothering her chuckles behind her hand.]
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[Caged birds, after all, don't do anything; they don't endanger anyone. They just sit and sing and curl their clawed feet around their perch. He comes back and sits at the table.]
I'm not sure yellow would work for you. Your hair.
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Apparently I cannot be a canary either. But no, yellow doesn't work well for me, and I on't particularly like the colour much either. I prefer green, pink, or white. I wear-- wore-- a lot of white actually, with patterns and things. I think I like those best of all.
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White I can see you in. Or black, for that matter. [And either would mean she wasn't here, pretty much, which would be A++ in his book.] Maybe a bit depressing, that.
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Wears. I have to believe that much at least. [Winnie clasps her hands in front of her and plays with her sleeves.] I just wish I could write home again, even just one letter.
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[He's repeating himself. He's surprised, though, by her mention of her father. He'd read about her mother, and remembered because they had it in common. But he'd imagined something more like his own situation.]
Why don't you sit down? [And he nods across the table, at the bench opposite.]
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--Oh, yes, of course. Thank you. [She takes a seat with an odd movement like she's tucking skirts beneath her as she sits; there's a pause once she realizes what she's done and she laughs.] I can't seem to break that habit.
[Elbows resting on the table, chin resting on the back of her clasped hands, she looks off at the edge of the table, thinking.] I'm sure my friends know where I've gone and what to do in my absence, and I know they'll take care of Father, but it's... a tad lonely. The texting thing is convenient, but I miss writing letters by hand.
[Which sounds a tad unrelated to the whole being lonely thing, but it's really just one more odd thing to contend with in this place.]
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I know what you mean, I think. I liked letters, even if they were the most perfunctory bloody things. [Language, Simon.] I used to write so many. Just tradition. [He still wrote to his father regularly right until he was taken—short little updates, vague and in brief, as good as lies. He's sure they all wound up in the paper shredder, since all he is to his father is a bloodline. Probably.]
You get on well with him, your father? [Juuust a little envious.]
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She listens to him and smiles, able to see Simon carefully bowed over a piece of paper to write--in her mind he has a quill, and probably a ruler with which to measure all the sides and the margins to make sure it's all in proper order; she suspects he might be the type to get anxious and press too hard and rip the paper too.
The question makes her huff a laugh through her nose and her smile grows fond and distant.] Very much. My mother-- [Winnie pauses, collects herself, and continues. Even after all this time it's a bit difficult, though she only knew her mother through her father's stories.] My mother died in childbirth-- common, unfortunately.
My father loved her very much, and I was all he had left of her. I suppose that made him a tad overprotective-- I almost never went outside or greeted visitors or anything like that. But my father was always very kind, I never really felt caged in or anything until I grew older-- but I've never resented him for it. Really, I'm thankful.
[If it had been discovered, after all, they would have taken her away and her life would have been terribly, drastically, different. If she had to analyze it she can probably figure that that sort of environment was why she never quite 'grew up'] It wasn't until I was growing up with Agnes that I realized there was an entire world outside my home that I had no reason not to see.
[Winnie falls quiet for a moment and then smiles again, looking to Simon] He used to tuck me into bed and read me all sorts of stories and poems. Even before I left I would meet him in his study before I went to bed, and he'd tell me a story-- they're almost always ones I've heard before, but when he tells them it's like I'm hearing it for the first time all over again. I always felt so inspired by those stories.
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He's not quite expressionless, if you know how to look; everything has been turned down almost to nothing, but a lot is still there, a subtle engraving of emotion and thought instead of his old bright brush strokes. He ends up blinking slowly across the table, folding his hands back in his lap.]
We have—a surprising amount in common, you and I. Don't you think so? [What an admission, after he'd as good as lied to her the first time they spoke. He wonders if she's read his file by now, when she wouldn't before.]
My mother. She, ah, died, the same way yours did. [He has the most awful misgiving about mentioning this at all. But Gliese had known, had mentioned it to him, and he wants to cleanse the fact of it.] I was the youngest. The last.
[Which is to say, he killed her. But if it was the same for Winnie, who hasn't mentioned brothers or sisters, she doesn't seem to think so. The fact is vertiginous.]
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So she listens intently and nods in understanding, but for a moment she doesn't say much as she thinks.] It's strange. I get sad, of course, when i think of it, but... I have nothing but portraits to remember her by. I miss her, but there's nothing to really miss when I never knew her in the first place.
[Winnie wonders if that sounds callous and she brings her hands together to two twist anxiously on top of the table.] I think I miss the memory of her and the idea of her, of what could have been, more than anything. I don't know what would have happened if she'd survived, and I don't know if, given the choice, I'd choose that over the life I have now.
[Would they have given her away to the government? Would the officials had told them, "you're young and can have other children, you don't need this one" like she suspected they did to many couples? Or would they have worked together to keep her secret, locked away in some far tower like the princesses from her stories?
Winnie gives that humorless chuckle again and bows her head, shaking it at herself.] I suppose that sounds terrible. [After a moment he asks:] Do you get along with your father? Your siblings?
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It turns out it isn't very much. He knows there's more to what she's saying; he's got an unfair advantage, in that he is prepared to poke through everyone's records—he had a few misgivings at first, but he's quickly come to see it as just part of surviving.] It was just my sister and my father, for the most part. But they weren't, ah, family. Just people I lived with. Angry, or—or spiteful. Sad.
[The scarf is tugging again; down in his lap, his hands are twisting. It's not something he can ever change.] Are you really happy with your life? As it is now? You should give lessons, if you are.
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She doesn't say 'I'm sorry,' because at this point those words sound cheap, but she sympathizes.] Agnes is the closest I've had to a sibling, but... I wish I'd had a brother like you. [Winnie means it too, the sincerity clear in her voice.
His next question makes her pause again and she sits back some, looking up towards the ceiling in thought. Winnie can think of many little things she would have liked to change, but when she puts it all together...] Yes. [There's no hesitation and she lowers her gaze to smile at Simon.] I'm very happy. I have Agnes and Mortimer, and my father. I have a purpose and a goal I'm driving for. I'm able to see and learn things I never would have if I'd stayed inside all my life. Maybe the circumstances that pushed me to question it are painful, and of course I wish they were less so, but... I think that pain was necessary. I still wouldn't change it.
[Winnie thinks on it again and then nods as if she's reached a decision that what she's said is true.] I don't know what lessons I could give on it. It's about finding something to focus on, changing your perspective... If I were to list all the bad things that have happened to me, and focus only on those, I could easily say my life was a bad one and unhappy. But I think of the people I've met and helped, and of all the good that came with every bit of pain and think 'It was worth it.'
Surely you have good memories too.
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But that first emotional impression lingers; he's still touched by it. It still counts. When he looks back up, though, listening, his lips have pinched together; she's missed the point he was trying to make.]
I have good memories. Of course I do. [He does; he knows he does. He just ... can't quite remember them, placed on the spot and asked to recall them. Or they're seen through a dark lens, leached of all their colour and warmth. Or they're tainted beyond repair, and can't count any longer. He doesn't know how she does it, and yet the last thing he wants is for her to stop so obsessively seeing the bright side of everything. But it's inevitable.] I just—
For all that your life before was good, on the whole, you are here now. Do you understand me? I—how do you do it?
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[A mumble, more to remind him than an actual answer, but she shakes her head.] I don't know. I just know everything will work out in the end, because it has to. I just keep that thought in mind and... put one foot in front of the other.
[She wants to give him the right answer, but it's hard when she has no idea what it would be, or what he's looking for.] Is something wrong, Simon?
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Closing his hands on the scarf again, he counts backwards, and goes over snatches of songs and poetry to calm himself. One of them's the poem she gave him, back before the library. By now, he knows it by heart, every word and rhyme and rhythm.]
"I have not winced nor cried aloud". Do you remember? It's the same thing, I think.
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She leans across the table to touch his arm and speak sincerely.] It's not much-- I can't give you what you're looking for, I think, but I'm here to listen if you need it. I am here for you.
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Memories, they'd been talking about. Memories of home. His head spins when he tries to think about it, images of closer family than his own and school and work and friends all mixed together, so he just thanks her.] You're a ridiculously good person, despite everything. And if I ever need to talk about it all—I will come to you. But not today.
Are you sure I can't get you something? A glass of water, maybe? I wish we had tea. [He's changing the subject, with a nervous patter of hospitality.]