Andy usually did attempt to keep her mood light and fluid, knowing how dark it could get otherwise, and it spread easy among the others the longer they spent time here. It wasn't the longest break from the mercenary life the group had taken: Andy remembered the better portion of a year spent rebuilding a destroyed Aboriginal school, somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Australia. Booker had been in high demand given his penchant for reading to the children and she knew he'd loved it.
The memory and his bringing her hand up to his lips made her smile, a little joyful laugh escaping her throat. "Sebastien Le Livre, you terrible flirt," she teased. Andy liked seeing him so free, and happier than he'd been in a long time. Maybe ever, certainly since the death of his wife; none of them could take the place of his first, mortal, family and Andy knew that. It wasn't even a matter of trying hard enough and getting through. Nothing would erase them, not the painful memories of watching his children pass before him. Andy hasn't always made herself obvious about it but even when Booker's youngest was in the hospital she'd watched him, ready to step in when he broke from the weight of carrying and denying that silent, hulking inevitability.
The poets had had something true with their words. How terrible it was to love something death could touch.
no subject
Andy usually did attempt to keep her mood light and fluid, knowing how dark it could get otherwise, and it spread easy among the others the longer they spent time here. It wasn't the longest break from the mercenary life the group had taken: Andy remembered the better portion of a year spent rebuilding a destroyed Aboriginal school, somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Australia. Booker had been in high demand given his penchant for reading to the children and she knew he'd loved it.
The memory and his bringing her hand up to his lips made her smile, a little joyful laugh escaping her throat. "Sebastien Le Livre, you terrible flirt," she teased. Andy liked seeing him so free, and happier than he'd been in a long time. Maybe ever, certainly since the death of his wife; none of them could take the place of his first, mortal, family and Andy knew that. It wasn't even a matter of trying hard enough and getting through. Nothing would erase them, not the painful memories of watching his children pass before him. Andy hasn't always made herself obvious about it but even when Booker's youngest was in the hospital she'd watched him, ready to step in when he broke from the weight of carrying and denying that silent, hulking inevitability.
The poets had had something true with their words. How terrible it was to love something death could touch.