[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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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?
no subject
[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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]