as I hold my soul all the music pours out
It’s not the first time Vi’s demigod has offered to heal his hip, and even though he isn’t insulted by the offer (it is, indeed, a kind gesture), Falke hopes it might be the last. His head drifts slowly side to side, not necessarily so contemplative as the gentlest of rebukes. “No… It’s part of who I am. How I got here.” A reminder of chronic pain - all kinds - and that injury or perceived ‘defects’ are not the whole of a person. But that’s a conversation for another day, and so he quickly lightens the solemnity of his statement with a quick joke. “Plus it’s a good excuse to ask the patient Dr. Hart to fetch me some tea every now and then.”
And does he take advantage of it occasionally? Absolutely.
When she looks away, he lets the silence stretch between them for as long as she might like, similarly turning back to his book, reading the same page over and over again until the first couple of sentences begin to make sense again. He reaches for his pencil, quietly scratching something on his pad of paper when she breaks and he looks back up again. The depth and seriousness of the question is unexpected. His eyes widen a bit as he recalibrates, mentally taking one hat off and putting the other hat on.
Pulling something from the recesses of his past, Falke’s eyes flicker in a recognition of pain. His pencil clacks against the table, seeming quite loud to him even though it isn’t loud at all.
“Yes,” the Fixer says simply. Honestly. “I have.”
And does he take advantage of it occasionally? Absolutely.
When she looks away, he lets the silence stretch between them for as long as she might like, similarly turning back to his book, reading the same page over and over again until the first couple of sentences begin to make sense again. He reaches for his pencil, quietly scratching something on his pad of paper when she breaks and he looks back up again. The depth and seriousness of the question is unexpected. His eyes widen a bit as he recalibrates, mentally taking one hat off and putting the other hat on.
Pulling something from the recesses of his past, Falke’s eyes flicker in a recognition of pain. His pencil clacks against the table, seeming quite loud to him even though it isn’t loud at all.
“Yes,” the Fixer says simply. Honestly. “I have.”
THE 'FIXER'
the greatest fear I've ever kept is dying with regrets
