souffle_girlek | (no subject)

(no subject)

Early in the morning, before most of the bar is awake, a tiny time traveler visits the kitchen. She would stay at home for a late-night snack, usually, but...

Well.

Ace already knows way too much about the Wells' romantic life, and about one picosecond downstairs at the farm let her know that sticking around would only teach her more. And since Bar was getting a break in the quiet hours of the night, Ace decides to fetch a snack herself. It's really too bad she left her current project on top of the microwave when she left.

=========================================================================

"Well, you see, it's not as easy as going 'yay, souffle'... well, actually, that's pretty much the whole plan, but you have to make it a flavor first, and there's all sorts of flavors." Oswin explain, her nerves translating to babble as she leads them into the kitchen.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Panic makes things hard to remember, which doesn't help, not at all - she remembers walking into this room, right? There's no way to look outside, to check, without going near the doors, and if... if it isn't real, that's bad, so...

Oswin hunches her shoulders, pulling in on herself, pulling away, unsure of the defensiveness of her position.

The boy flounders, completely lost as to how to help her. "Oswin," he says, trying to ground her, trying to bring her back to the now. "No one's going to hurt you. I promise."

The room is so... large. Too large, too much space to watch, to categorize, to try and remember. Too easy to forget if something was the same as it is now a few minutes ago, or if its changing, a glitching memory covering up something awful.

So really, there is a reason that she retreats further, under the prep table, backing up until her back is against the wall, until she can curl her knees up to her chest and cover her head with her arms.

It's safer.

Really.

For a moment, Autor fidgets in place, unsure of what to do. "Oswin?" he asks, a little desperately.

Eventually, the boy calls a blanket out of his sylladex and crouches down. "Oswin, would you like a blanket?"

There's a soft sound under the table.

It's not words.

It's not a tune.

It's the broken sobbing of a girl who just wants to be free of this mess, and who knows that just isn't a possibility anymore.

And each gasping sob cuts into Autor's heart. He carefully drapes the blanket across her knees before turning away from her, sitting on the floor and wrapping his arms around his knees. He doesn't know what to do, and there's no magic wand he can wave to fix this.

The boy bites his scarred knuckles, listening to her cry.

Options:

Last choice?

-or-

Start?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(no subject)

Re: Autor doesn't touch Oswin

Re: Autor doesn't touch Oswin

Re: Autor doesn't touch Oswin

Re: Autor doesn't touch Oswin

Re: Autor doesn't touch Oswin

Re: Autor doesn't touch Oswin