The Beginning: Singing Plot
Apr. 15th, 2018 08:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
very_sharpeThomas smiled when Greta walked through the door. "Flip the sign, would you?"
He'd given Rowan a break, sent him off on lunch. But now that Greta was here, he supposed it wouldn't be too untoward to take a little break himself. It wasn't unusual for the shop to close for lunch - he had so few staff members that it just had to be that way, most of the time. But more than that, it seemed oddly civil.
"There's something in the back I want to show you. I'd thought to just bring it over later, but this is perfect."
He liked that she dropped in to visit him, whenever she had time or whenever it occurred to her.
He'd given Rowan a break, sent him off on lunch. But now that Greta was here, he supposed it wouldn't be too untoward to take a little break himself. It wasn't unusual for the shop to close for lunch - he had so few staff members that it just had to be that way, most of the time. But more than that, it seemed oddly civil.
"There's something in the back I want to show you. I'd thought to just bring it over later, but this is perfect."
He liked that she dropped in to visit him, whenever she had time or whenever it occurred to her.
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Date: 2018-05-07 03:55 am (UTC)There ought to be music. The more she grows to care for him, the more keenly she feels its absence. It's not that none of this feels real, without it; they've spoken too much, and too honestly, for her to doubt him. But it... god, it almost puts her in mind of adopting Saoirse: of waiting impatiently for some bewildering bureaucracy to officialize something that was already true. Except for the part where Darrow at least provides a bureaucracy, but heaven forbid it give them a tune.
She just wants this to be real. And she doesn't know how to make it feel that way without music. She doesn't know how to tell him she loves him, as if it wouldn't sound trite and hollow without a melody to fill it out.
In that moment, her thumb idly smoothing over the jewel on her new necklace as Thomas's brushes against her cheek, she wishes there could just be music.
But she knows better. And this, as it is, is still rather wonderful. "I admire your restraint," she says, mock-serious, catching his hand with her own and pressing a kiss to his palm. Some methods of communication, at least, don't require words at all.