formoftherapy | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

The door is supposed to take her to Natalie's spare room; Kite stumbles at the threshold, but keeps going. The t-shirt and sweats she wears almost fit her. Another shirt and a pair of jeans are bundled in her arms. (These are splattered with...something. Cran-apple juice, maybe?)

She heads straight for the bar, where she drops the second set of clothes off. "Bar, can you...take care of these? I don't need them back."

The clothes vanish, to be replaced by a mug of hot tea. "Thanks," she murmurs.

Her throat is still a wreck, probably will be for the next few days. She can learn to like tea for that long.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She winces.

"I know, I...I know it doesn't always turn out that way."

She knows she should be grateful. She is grateful.

It's just hard to remember right now.

"Yes. Well. I am glad that it did, in your case." He sighs. "And that your Sherlock retained his soul. I've no doubt Tony needs him."

"Yeah."

"Can I ask you something?"

"By all means, yes."

Even with permission, she still hesitates.

(It's a stupid question. And of all people to ask--

But who else is there?)

"Do you think Tony will ever forgive me?"

He shuts his eyes.

"Of course," he whispers.

She reaches out slowly, her fingertips hovering over the back of his hand, but she doesn't yet touch him.

"Thank you."

(He can tell, of course.

He smiles.)

"It's Tony. He could not do anything else."

She smiles faintly back.

"Probably not."

But it still helps to hear it.

She curls her hand lightly over his.

He interlaces their fingers.

"It is," he says softly, "very good to meet you."

She squeezes gently.

"Good to meet you, too."

Sherlock opens his eyes and grins at her.

"People tell me that so rarely."

"People," she replies, "do not know what they're missing."

"Oh, sudden death as often as not. So few of them are worth anything else."

She laughs.

She probably shouldn't, but you don't get out of Sunnydale alive without a morbid sense of humor.

He grins.

"You're a delightful creature."

She ducks her head, coloring slightly.

"I'm glad you think so."

Sherlock reaches across the distance between them and touches her cheek.

"Delightful," he repeats.

She tilts her head into the touch; if the temperature disparity between them bothers her, it doesn't show.

"I think," he says, consideringly, "that I would like to hug you."

"I think--"

Her voice is thick; she has to clear her throat. (She is done crying tonight.)

"I think I'd like that."

"Good."

He stands up, crosses the short distance between them, and gently wraps his arms around her.

Kite hugs back considerably harder. (It's not like she can hurt him.)

"Thanks."

"Anytime," he murmurs. "Anytime."

"Careful," she mutters into the side of his neck.

"I'll take you up on that."