[The crowd is noticing that Winnie's prone to what we'll call unhealthy optimism—but Simon does sound a little more animated; he's talking faster. The table's already folded out, and he hurries to it, spreading out his bundle there.]
No. I didn't. I have no idea. But look at this.
[He's still unfolding, quiet and precise, pulling the things into view—a scarf and a pair of socks, made hastily in mingled brown white and grey wool. They look soft, and the weave is a little loose, but they're clearly handmade.]
I can't believe it. I can't think of anyone who would do this.
Oh, how darling! [She doesn't pick them up, not wanting to disturb them or possibly ruin them by being too rough, but she does reach out to run her fingers over the scarf.]
Someone made these for you? [Well, obviously, but Winnie is smiling as she looks them over] Strange they didn't leave a note or anything! This is... [She shakes her head lowly and then looks at Simon for a moment, considering.]
[The question takes him by surprise. He turns, sighing a little, peering at her as he examines himself. Happy? No, never that. But touched, deeply so, to the point he could cry? Perhaps.]
Let's say yes. That works.
[He goes back to staring at the fabric, running his fingers gently over its crevices and bumps.] But the weaving. Someone had to spin the fibre. They had to knit all of this—at least, I think it's knitted. They must have been doing this almost since we got here...
Oh, they did leave a note. [And he fishes in his pocket, producing it—an untidy scrawl on the back of a tinned fruit salad label. "fore Simon", it reads.] I should have known it wasn't you. Look at the writing.
[She looks momentarily uncertain, but, again, doesn't push it. Instead she reaches out to touch the scarf and shakes her head in awe. So much work... Clearly Simon meant a lot to whoever went through the effort.
Winnie looks at the label, and then at Simon with a look like really? But with a laugh to show there's no ill-will and that she wasn't actually offended or anything, she looked it over.] Maybe it's someone taking one of the English lessons? It doesn't look like they know the language very well.
Don't be cruel. [But he's not offended at all; he's still looking at the note.]
I think you're right that their English is poor. But not their writing, particularly. They might be foreign—or—maybe the spelling is because they're from further back than you are. Er, if you'll excuse me. Archaic, not wrong...
[And then he hits on it. He looks at her, startled.] Arya, perhaps. You know her, right? But that's—very hard to imagine.
[She blinks, wide-eyed-- how was that cruel? She was just pointing out a fact! Simon did seem to get fussy about the strangest things...]
Hmm, yes I know Arya, she's in my rover. I haven't seen her doing anything like this. Frankly, she seems more the type to stab someone with a knitting needle before using it for it's actual intended purpose.
[She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her chin thoughtfully.] I don't think I know anyone besides Arya and I that are so far back in time. Who else do you talk to often?
Crumbs. [Yes, he really did just say that, thoughtful and solemn with a finger at his mouth.] Let me think. If it's not you, and it's not Arya, then maybe it's... Babydoll? But I'm sure she can spell.
[Handy hint, Simon: men knit. It actually won't occur to him until later on.]
There's Vriska, I suppose. But, uh. [Talk about your people who'd stab you with a knitting needle.]
Crumbs? [She looks bewildered and a tad baffled. What does that even mean Simon. Probably if she actually thought about it she might understand but there's too much else going on for her to bother with it.
Moving on and figuring this out is more important anyway.] Wasn't Vriska the one's whose arms...? [She trails off, a bit uncomfortable.] She doesn't seem the knitting type. [to put it politely.]
Do you know Pilot? Do you think maybe he could have?
I do know Pilot. But this is such an Earth-based craft...
[Not that he has any idea what aliens get up to with fibre and wool, and he realises that almost straight away. He gives her a bit of a helpless look.]
I suppose he might have. I couldn't say for sure that he hasn't. It seems the sort of thing he'd do, doesn't it? [Though he doesn't look like he'd have the dexterity for it. Then again, what does Simon know?]
Maybe you could ask him? Who else do you talk to regularly?
[Winnie looks at Simon for a long moment and then reaches out to place a comforting hand on his arm.] Although, in the end, I suppose it doesn't really matter, you know? It's the thought that counts more than who it came from.
[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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
okay why did I think madu were brown? YOU SAW NOTHING
No. I didn't. I have no idea. But look at this.
[He's still unfolding, quiet and precise, pulling the things into view—a scarf and a pair of socks, made hastily in mingled
brownwhite and grey wool. They look soft, and the weave is a little loose, but they're clearly handmade.]I can't believe it. I can't think of anyone who would do this.
LOOKS AWAY....
Someone made these for you? [Well, obviously, but Winnie is smiling as she looks them over] Strange they didn't leave a note or anything! This is... [She shakes her head lowly and then looks at Simon for a moment, considering.]
...Are you happy?
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Let's say yes. That works.
[He goes back to staring at the fabric, running his fingers gently over its crevices and bumps.] But the weaving. Someone had to spin the fibre. They had to knit all of this—at least, I think it's knitted. They must have been doing this almost since we got here...
Oh, they did leave a note. [And he fishes in his pocket, producing it—an untidy scrawl on the back of a tinned fruit salad label. "fore Simon", it reads.] I should have known it wasn't you. Look at the writing.
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Winnie looks at the label, and then at Simon with a look like really? But with a laugh to show there's no ill-will and that she wasn't actually offended or anything, she looked it over.] Maybe it's someone taking one of the English lessons? It doesn't look like they know the language very well.
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I think you're right that their English is poor. But not their writing, particularly. They might be foreign—or—maybe the spelling is because they're from further back than you are. Er, if you'll excuse me. Archaic, not wrong...
[And then he hits on it. He looks at her, startled.] Arya, perhaps. You know her, right? But that's—very hard to imagine.
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Hmm, yes I know Arya, she's in my rover. I haven't seen her doing anything like this. Frankly, she seems more the type to stab someone with a knitting needle before using it for it's actual intended purpose.
[She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her chin thoughtfully.] I don't think I know anyone besides Arya and I that are so far back in time. Who else do you talk to often?
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[Handy hint, Simon: men knit. It actually won't occur to him until later on.]
There's Vriska, I suppose. But, uh. [Talk about your people who'd stab you with a knitting needle.]
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Moving on and figuring this out is more important anyway.] Wasn't Vriska the one's whose arms...? [She trails off, a bit uncomfortable.] She doesn't seem the knitting type. [to put it politely.]
Do you know Pilot? Do you think maybe he could have?
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[Not that he has any idea what aliens get up to with fibre and wool, and he realises that almost straight away. He gives her a bit of a helpless look.]
I suppose he might have. I couldn't say for sure that he hasn't. It seems the sort of thing he'd do, doesn't it? [Though he doesn't look like he'd have the dexterity for it. Then again, what does Simon know?]
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[Winnie looks at Simon for a long moment and then reaches out to place a comforting hand on his arm.] Although, in the end, I suppose it doesn't really matter, you know? It's the thought that counts more than who it came from.
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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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