[ Daniel comes in from the water, slacks rolled up to his ankles. The bottom of his sweater is damp and cold; it'll start to smell in a beat from all the salt and sea, but well worth it for a few extra clams. (You never know when you'll have visitors.) Sand sticks to the soles of his feet as he walks in to the shore, two plastic buckets (one red, one green) clutched in hand.
He's tidying everything up for the drive back when he sees her there. In his peripheral the line of the ocean blurs and she's a lone figure of cream and teal; he smiles as he approaches, head bowed and hands in his pockets. ]
Without the boyfriend? [ Teasing without the malice and jovial without the jaunt; there's an implication there if anyone looks hard enough. But that's how Amyranth works, isn't it? ] Grace, was it?
[ Magical autonomy is something Grace hasn't had for a long time, and it's always with envy (envy, and something that toes the line between dislike and hate) that she regards the witches of Amyranth. How nice must it be still to be able to cast your own magic?
(She remembers crafting flames with her bare hands, and she remembers shards of ice. It seems like a lifetime ago.)
Daniel, given the nature of his gift, is the exception. It doesn't make them much closer — he isn't being tapped for his magic — but it's something. When he calls, she turns, one hand raised to shield her eyes, a makeshift guard against the whip of her auburn hair. (Where once her beauty had been bright and unfettered, it has faded into something a little harder to catch; apt for the grey that colors the sky and the cold that nips at one's heels with the roll of the tide.) ]
Yeah, Grace. [ Then, almost absently: ] He's busy. [ Both answers seem more like asides than anything else, though the second bears the same sort of odd on-off teasing quality. (Maybe he is, maybe he isn't, either way it bears asking what she's doing alone.) It's a little while before she says anything else. Sorry, she thinks, maybe. It's been a long week. Something like that.
Ah. [ He hums as if her explanation is perfectly satisfactory — a quiet acceptance more than brush-off. Daniel's seen them come and go, Ceangail's girls, though he's only been tangently, distantly aware of it. It's a crude thought, how a dog with a mangled leg is better put to sleep; its bones are broken and it'll never trust again, will it, and it's certainly not happy. (Well— maybe.)
But, he thinks, eyes quiet and easy in the way they take in the planes of Grace's face, the set of her mouth and the darkness under her eyes — that might happen sooner rather than later. ]
And together we're Grace and Daniel. How about that, hm? [ He flashes her a smile, rubbing a hand along the stubble of his jaw as he turns. The sea is starting to wake; he sees waves that are white-capped peaks in the horizon. The tide's coming in.]
You might catch something, waiting out here like that.
[ This comment, too, seems made in passing, but the words weigh themselves down in a way that only the truth can. (He sees it and she sees it, too. Sooner rather than later, the tapestry that's fraying at the edges will be replaced by one that's younger, brighter, more lovely. It's just the way things go.) To her credit, she doesn't linger on the thought, at least not for the moment. Thinking about a broken bone won't make it heal and mulling over what she can't change won't alter the course of what's to come. And besides, Daniel hasn't asked for a treatise of that kind, and unlike some, he's been nothing but kind, if in a cursory sort of manner.
She's smiling, the next time that she looks over at him, white foam gathering briefly about her ankles before the water retreats again. (That's a good girl, Gracie.) ]
[ It's nice to see her smile. He thinks it openly but, as these things go, maybe it's not a particularly kind thing — he's sure men have said that to her with less than good intentions, so there's no desire to speak it out loud. (And then, there's the other thing: Ceangail isn't a particularly light sort, is he?) ] Nah, don't worry about me. [ Daniel taps the side of his nose, a quick wink to follow, a here's a secret and you can do with it as you please. ] Takes more than a little cold. And I already caught some bloody fish today. I think that's plenty of somethings.
[ A beat passes. He doesn't move or shift his weight, just breathes in to the ebb and flow of the tide. Salt expands his lungs and there's an itch in his palms, a thread that extends all the way back to his own windowsill and the tiny shakkan there.
Finally: ] Alright, then?
[ As in: are you? As in: I can't do anything. As in: But you can tell me, if you'd like to.
Grace is not so far gone not to be able to tell the difference between nice and not, and out of under Amyranth's figurative roof that she's met, it's Daniel who has been the most considerate. (She knows — she knows — Eamonn doesn't fall into the same category. It is not kindness that brings him into her bed, nor into her thoughts.) She wrinkles her nose at the question, almost as if in surprise. ]
For now, [ she tells him, and, as with the apparent theme of the conversation so far, there are a million subtexts. ] A little tired, I guess. [ For now, she survives. For now, she's still useful. But the returns aren't one hundred percent anymore, and they're not set to climb back up. And no, he can't do anything, even if he'd want to — she doesn't know if he would — and neither can she.
Still, she smiles (because there's nothing else she can do, because it doesn't do either of them good for her to mope, because he's kind and that is much more than most think to offer a well. (Because he reminds her of something besides what she has now, of something good.) ]
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He's tidying everything up for the drive back when he sees her there. In his peripheral the line of the ocean blurs and she's a lone figure of cream and teal; he smiles as he approaches, head bowed and hands in his pockets. ]
Without the boyfriend? [ Teasing without the malice and jovial without the jaunt; there's an implication there if anyone looks hard enough. But that's how Amyranth works, isn't it? ] Grace, was it?
no subject
(She remembers crafting flames with her bare hands, and she remembers shards of ice. It seems like a lifetime ago.)
Daniel, given the nature of his gift, is the exception. It doesn't make them much closer — he isn't being tapped for his magic — but it's something. When he calls, she turns, one hand raised to shield her eyes, a makeshift guard against the whip of her auburn hair. (Where once her beauty had been bright and unfettered, it has faded into something a little harder to catch; apt for the grey that colors the sky and the cold that nips at one's heels with the roll of the tide.) ]
Yeah, Grace. [ Then, almost absently: ] He's busy. [ Both answers seem more like asides than anything else, though the second bears the same sort of odd on-off teasing quality. (Maybe he is, maybe he isn't, either way it bears asking what she's doing alone.) It's a little while before she says anything else. Sorry, she thinks, maybe. It's been a long week. Something like that.
Or maybe not. ]
You're Daniel.
no subject
But, he thinks, eyes quiet and easy in the way they take in the planes of Grace's face, the set of her mouth and the darkness under her eyes — that might happen sooner rather than later. ]
And together we're Grace and Daniel. How about that, hm? [ He flashes her a smile, rubbing a hand along the stubble of his jaw as he turns. The sea is starting to wake; he sees waves that are white-capped peaks in the horizon. The tide's coming in.]
You might catch something, waiting out here like that.
no subject
[ This comment, too, seems made in passing, but the words weigh themselves down in a way that only the truth can. (He sees it and she sees it, too. Sooner rather than later, the tapestry that's fraying at the edges will be replaced by one that's younger, brighter, more lovely. It's just the way things go.) To her credit, she doesn't linger on the thought, at least not for the moment. Thinking about a broken bone won't make it heal and mulling over what she can't change won't alter the course of what's to come. And besides, Daniel hasn't asked for a treatise of that kind, and unlike some, he's been nothing but kind, if in a cursory sort of manner.
She's smiling, the next time that she looks over at him, white foam gathering briefly about her ankles before the water retreats again. (That's a good girl, Gracie.) ]
You might, too, you know. Catch something.
no subject
[ A beat passes. He doesn't move or shift his weight, just breathes in to the ebb and flow of the tide. Salt expands his lungs and there's an itch in his palms, a thread that extends all the way back to his own windowsill and the tiny shakkan there.
Finally: ] Alright, then?
[ As in: are you? As in: I can't do anything. As in: But you can tell me, if you'd like to.
Or not. ]
no subject
Grace is not so far gone not to be able to tell the difference between nice and not, and out of under Amyranth's figurative roof that she's met, it's Daniel who has been the most considerate. (She knows — she knows — Eamonn doesn't fall into the same category. It is not kindness that brings him into her bed, nor into her thoughts.) She wrinkles her nose at the question, almost as if in surprise. ]
For now, [ she tells him, and, as with the apparent theme of the conversation so far, there are a million subtexts. ] A little tired, I guess. [ For now, she survives. For now, she's still useful. But the returns aren't one hundred percent anymore, and they're not set to climb back up. And no, he can't do anything, even if he'd want to — she doesn't know if he would — and neither can she.
Still, she smiles (because there's nothing else she can do, because it doesn't do either of them good for her to mope, because he's kind and that is much more than most think to offer a well. (Because he reminds her of something besides what she has now, of something good.) ]
Not much of a surprise, though, is it?