[ her brows are already furrowed with concern, and if there's anything more telling than the condition of a voice on a crystal, it's body language. eyes - particularly his. ]
Her smile is a tired one, but no less sincere, and she's not coy about the way she studies him as she approaches.
The weather does feel impossibly warm, almost as if the world is apologizing for the heaviness of the past few days, but Margaery looks as if she's expecting to stroll in colder climates; the shawl around her shoulders is pretty, very obviously a gift and an efficient way to cover up, with her arms crossed and hidden under all the folds.
It's silly, perhaps, to take such measures when they've survived so much, but. They're still here, and not without injury or pain.
Which is why she breezes through their usual brand of greetings and walks up to him to give him a proper hug, effectively enveloping him in soft wool wings and a squeeze around his midsection to make up for her uncharacteristic silence.
He looks tired, and that isn't new. He usually exists somewhere on the spectrum of exhaustion, depending on how much needs to be done and how many cups of coffee he's had recently. They've all been busy, been involved in fights for their lives over the last few days.
But a close study might note how frayed he feels: lines of his face worn deeper, eyes haunted not far below the surface. Not unlike how he'd looked upon returning from the war front at Tantervale and Starkhaven. Weariness from borne pain, rather than simple insomnia. His own hands are in dark gloves despite the sunlight, long sleeves and trousers in the plain style that he favors. They betray nothing about possible injury, but he'd been honest with her earlier; he moves easily, clearly physically unharmed.
Here's a fact: James Holden gives great hugs.
His arms come around Margaery without hesitation, hands resting against the wool across her back as he draws her close. Even the breeze sheeting across the nearby waves can't trespass on their bubble of warmth. He holds her steadily, patiently; there's a clear, quiet message that he'll only let go when she's ready.
She's not ready for a while. It's sort of like a game of chicken, where she thinks she might be ready but when the moment comes, she finds she can't let go. A few seconds turn into nearly a full minute before she finally releases him from her grasp, face immediately turning up to look up into his.
The sun might be a welcome relief, but it also throws the lines of Jim's face into harsher relief, provides a contrasting soft glow to the bleak haunted nature of his eyes. If she didn't know any better, Margaery would almost assume that he'd been battling - and killing - human beings, not reanimated corpses.
I'm fine, echoes in her mind. Almost a taunt for how accurate it may be on the surface. But her style has never been to come out of the gate with a charge, so she says nothing for now.
There's nothing of impatience in his face when she finally draws back β his own arms loosening easily β and looks at him. He smiles, gentle, and his expression is soft. They're both here, after the last few days, and that's something in and of itself to be happy about.
He breathes out, wry, and answers, "Some. There's a lot that needs to be done."
He'd crashed not too long after it became clear that they were safe. Impossible not to, after how hard the fight had been. But he'd been roused by nightmares, found them behind closed eyelids ever since. Their familiarity doesn't make them easier to deal with β worse, maybe, for the new locations for old fears, seeing the now in the Gallows as much as space.
She takes his arm, gently steering him to turn so they can begin walking. Sometimes, it's easier for people to be honest when no one is staring into their eyes, expectantly waiting for truths.
"Tell me what takes up the most residence in your mind now?"
What is driving him, she wonders. This aftermath has left her feeling almost bereft once more, with the very same thoughts that she had to grapple with during her isolation periods after her arrival. It's not the idea of mortality that terrifies Margaery, but there are fears running in similar veins - and she wonders if it's the same for Jim.
They start walking, though not without a glance in her direction. It feels like a strange question, but also just the kind of thing Margaery would ask. It only feels strange because it's directed his way.
He considers the question, turns it over in his mind.
"How lucky we are that we didn't lose anyone," he says, finally, honestly. "Between the Brother and the night attack. It came too close."
"I've been thinking that, too. How we've had this misfortune, but also a strange silver lining. I had to stitch up Jone's face in the infirmary - which, as you might understand, was not a small task - but all the same, no one was delivered unconscious, or battered beyond measure. We are lucky."
And in any other time, she might have gently poked fun at his gentlemanly call to take her for a walk, but that desperate grasp at typical humor almost feels disrespectful in how superficial it'd be.
"But... physical injury is almost easier to cure than what else might ail us," Margaery says, her tone just careful enough to seem speculative. "For instance, I don't know when I'll ever be able to get a full night's sleep again."
Had she mentioned anyone but Jone, he'd likely be more worried at that piece of news β and he'll bet it wasn't a small task, how she throws herself in battle β but since it was Jone, he. You know. Knows she can handle it.
He looks to her at that admission, though, concern creasing his brow.
"Well, you aren't alone in that. I doubt anyone's going to be able to sleep easy for a while."
Not so much a hesitation as brief surprise at the question; but he can admit it, doesn't have the kind of pride that'd be hurt to do so. He'd just said, after all, that this is likely to be true of everyone. He adds, lighter,
"I've always wondered about that. Is it just how... your body operates, Jim?"
She knows enough about coffee now, knows the addictive function of it, but it's not to say that Holden doesn't sleep because he doesn't want to. She's had enough insomniatic nights herself to understand the eluding nature of sleep without cause or logic. Perhaps his body is only accustomed to small amounts of sleep.
Maybe longer. He slept better as a child, he thinks, but that's just part of being a child. Or maybe they're just idealized memories of being a kid, and having nothing to worry about.
"It's gotten worse as I've gotten older, but I'm pretty used to it."
As if the inability to sleep well is just a part of aging, instead of tied to painful experience. But the two go hand in hand.
"I'd be in bad shape if I hadn't been able to sleep here."
A little levity. Even James Holden would struggle with a year on no sleep, surely. But he does have to stop to think about her question, which may be telling enough.
"Probably before the attack," he admits. "Maybe right after. I was fucking exhausted."
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no subject
Derrica is the best, isn't she?
I'm... very glad you reached out, Jim. You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice, especially after the events of these past few days.
1/2
he tries to, but yk, derrica deserves the world. ]
no subject
[ get away from things for a moment, take in some fresh air. there's news he'd like to give her, but it can wait, depending on how she's doing. ]
no subject
[ her brows are already furrowed with concern, and if there's anything more telling than the condition of a voice on a crystal, it's body language. eyes - particularly his. ]
Where should I meet you?
no subject
Around the docks? We can walk by the water.
no subject
The weather does feel impossibly warm, almost as if the world is apologizing for the heaviness of the past few days, but Margaery looks as if she's expecting to stroll in colder climates; the shawl around her shoulders is pretty, very obviously a gift and an efficient way to cover up, with her arms crossed and hidden under all the folds.
It's silly, perhaps, to take such measures when they've survived so much, but. They're still here, and not without injury or pain.
Which is why she breezes through their usual brand of greetings and walks up to him to give him a proper hug, effectively enveloping him in soft wool wings and a squeeze around his midsection to make up for her uncharacteristic silence.
no subject
But a close study might note how frayed he feels: lines of his face worn deeper, eyes haunted not far below the surface. Not unlike how he'd looked upon returning from the war front at Tantervale and Starkhaven. Weariness from borne pain, rather than simple insomnia. His own hands are in dark gloves despite the sunlight, long sleeves and trousers in the plain style that he favors. They betray nothing about possible injury, but he'd been honest with her earlier; he moves easily, clearly physically unharmed.
Here's a fact: James Holden gives great hugs.
His arms come around Margaery without hesitation, hands resting against the wool across her back as he draws her close. Even the breeze sheeting across the nearby waves can't trespass on their bubble of warmth. He holds her steadily, patiently; there's a clear, quiet message that he'll only let go when she's ready.
no subject
The sun might be a welcome relief, but it also throws the lines of Jim's face into harsher relief, provides a contrasting soft glow to the bleak haunted nature of his eyes. If she didn't know any better, Margaery would almost assume that he'd been battling - and killing - human beings, not reanimated corpses.
I'm fine, echoes in her mind. Almost a taunt for how accurate it may be on the surface. But her style has never been to come out of the gate with a charge, so she says nothing for now.
"Have you been able to get some rest?"
no subject
He breathes out, wry, and answers, "Some. There's a lot that needs to be done."
He'd crashed not too long after it became clear that they were safe. Impossible not to, after how hard the fight had been. But he'd been roused by nightmares, found them behind closed eyelids ever since. Their familiarity doesn't make them easier to deal with β worse, maybe, for the new locations for old fears, seeing the now in the Gallows as much as space.
no subject
"Tell me what takes up the most residence in your mind now?"
What is driving him, she wonders. This aftermath has left her feeling almost bereft once more, with the very same thoughts that she had to grapple with during her isolation periods after her arrival. It's not the idea of mortality that terrifies Margaery, but there are fears running in similar veins - and she wonders if it's the same for Jim.
no subject
He considers the question, turns it over in his mind.
"How lucky we are that we didn't lose anyone," he says, finally, honestly. "Between the Brother and the night attack. It came too close."
no subject
And in any other time, she might have gently poked fun at his gentlemanly call to take her for a walk, but that desperate grasp at typical humor almost feels disrespectful in how superficial it'd be.
"But... physical injury is almost easier to cure than what else might ail us," Margaery says, her tone just careful enough to seem speculative. "For instance, I don't know when I'll ever be able to get a full night's sleep again."
no subject
He looks to her at that admission, though, concern creasing his brow.
"Well, you aren't alone in that. I doubt anyone's going to be able to sleep easy for a while."
no subject
"Including yourself?"
no subject
Not so much a hesitation as brief surprise at the question; but he can admit it, doesn't have the kind of pride that'd be hurt to do so. He'd just said, after all, that this is likely to be true of everyone. He adds, lighter,
"But you know I don't sleep much, anyway."
no subject
She knows enough about coffee now, knows the addictive function of it, but it's not to say that Holden doesn't sleep because he doesn't want to. She's had enough insomniatic nights herself to understand the eluding nature of sleep without cause or logic. Perhaps his body is only accustomed to small amounts of sleep.
Or perhaps something else keeps him up.
"What you've become comfortable with?"
no subject
Maybe longer. He slept better as a child, he thinks, but that's just part of being a child. Or maybe they're just idealized memories of being a kid, and having nothing to worry about.
"It's gotten worse as I've gotten older, but I'm pretty used to it."
As if the inability to sleep well is just a part of aging, instead of tied to painful experience. But the two go hand in hand.
no subject
Her voice is the softest it's ever been, not marred by pity but by understanding.
"Whether here, or -" home? Although that's not exactly accurate now, is it? "Or where you were before?"
no subject
A little levity. Even James Holden would struggle with a year on no sleep, surely. But he does have to stop to think about her question, which may be telling enough.
"Probably before the attack," he admits. "Maybe right after. I was fucking exhausted."