( They'd already started to thaw in their letters, warming up past that initial hesitant wary politeness — but there had still been some reserve. Just that slightest hint of distance and caution, a defensive barrier for each of them to hide behind.
But she's ripped it down, with her previous letter. The walls are starting to come down again, the doors slamming open, and he can almost — almost but not — pretend that it's still whispered conversations through two adjacent side windows, cracking it open from where he lay in bed. Two cans and a string. Their shoulders huddled together in the greenhouse, countless times before they were finally banished. It's him and it's her and that's what matters, even if it's long patient delays and only ink on a page and letters jaunting across the continent, passed on from hand-to-hand and stashed in trucks before some weary mailman drops it off where it's supposed to go. Even with all that distance, it still sounds so much like her. He can hear Allison's words rolling in and through him, whenever he lies in bed and carefully opens another envelope with the fancy silver letter-opener he found in a drawer somewhere, and reads what he's been waiting all week to read. It's the closest thing to her he can get. It's the only piece of her he can get.
He supposes he could ask for a phone number, and pick up the phone.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
He's too much of a coward to.
And besides, it'd be harder to hide. He can write his responses in dead silence and slip them out without the Monocle being much the wiser; but Luther camping out by the derelict payphone in the hallway, his voice a low murmur into the receiver, would be far harder to disguise. )
Dear Allison,
Is it rude if I say that they all seem like a bunch of wusses? You almost lost an arm when you were thirteen, and had not one peep of a complaint about it when Mom stitched you back together. I don't really understand other people, regular people. Then again, I guess that's just to be expected, it's not like I've talked to them much besides the Q&As and meet and greets.
I don't know if I'd be cut out for the sort of thing you I don't know if
What's been the hardest thing about getting adjusted to all of that, and what's been the best thing?
(I will never tell him, just as you have to swear to never let him find out that I miss the sound of his speech exercises down the hall. I still remember them. She sells sea shells by the sea shore. I thought I saw you in the garden. Mother and Father are singing in the rain.)
The fight's boring without you. - Luther
PS: Well, if you say so, then that must be true. I bow down to your completely irrefutable wisdom, Ms. Hargreeves.
no subject
But she's ripped it down, with her previous letter. The walls are starting to come down again, the doors slamming open, and he can almost — almost but not — pretend that it's still whispered conversations through two adjacent side windows, cracking it open from where he lay in bed. Two cans and a string. Their shoulders huddled together in the greenhouse, countless times before they were finally banished. It's him and it's her and that's what matters, even if it's long patient delays and only ink on a page and letters jaunting across the continent, passed on from hand-to-hand and stashed in trucks before some weary mailman drops it off where it's supposed to go. Even with all that distance, it still sounds so much like her. He can hear Allison's words rolling in and through him, whenever he lies in bed and carefully opens another envelope with the fancy silver letter-opener he found in a drawer somewhere, and reads what he's been waiting all week to read. It's the closest thing to her he can get. It's the only piece of her he can get.
He supposes he could ask for a phone number, and pick up the phone.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
He's too much of a coward to.
And besides, it'd be harder to hide. He can write his responses in dead silence and slip them out without the Monocle being much the wiser; but Luther camping out by the derelict payphone in the hallway, his voice a low murmur into the receiver, would be far harder to disguise. )
Is it rude if I say that they all seem like a bunch of wusses? You almost lost an arm when you were thirteen, and had not one peep of a complaint about it when Mom stitched you back together. I don't really understand other people, regular people. Then again, I guess that's just to be expected, it's not like I've talked to them much besides the Q&As and meet and greets.
I don't know if I'd be cut out for the sort of thing youI don't know if
What's been the hardest thing about getting adjusted to all of that, and what's been the best thing?
(I will never tell him, just as you have to swear to never let him find out that I miss the sound of his speech exercises down the hall. I still remember them. She sells sea shells by the sea shore. I thought I saw you in the garden. Mother and Father are singing in the rain.)
The fight's boring without you.
- Luther
PS: Well, if you say so, then that must be true. I bow down to your completely irrefutable wisdom, Ms. Hargreeves.