and I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
"Thank you," he says—and he will take her up on it, just not quite yet. He doesn't want to take all of this with him: it's almost symbolic in some way, the way he scrubs it from his boots, but—something he can't wash out of his spirit, something he can't hide, something he can't put away as easily, the filthy waters running through his veins instead—In a way, he's relieved Isla doesn't quite understand it either. "I suppose," he echoes, hollow and quiet. But whose decision had it been? Certainly not Sam's. It wasn't unified. The whole thing is just—bizarre.
"She was always very practical," he tangentially agrees, brows furrowing in something far more expressive than his previously just empty and lost face. "But I can't see what she stood to gain from this." Slowly he straightens up, the soles of his boots clean enough. Almost apologetically, his gaze flicks to Isla's. "I'll be back soon." And then he's gone, into the stock room and the shower, but he can't scrub the genocide from his skin.
Some time later he returns: damp hair neatly braided, skin and clothes clean (and perhaps it's a bit odd to see Aamu without that worn old coat of his), eyes still haunted. He looks at Isla in silence, as if suddenly a little unsure of who he is, or what he's doing there, and if he's imposing too much on her or not.
Aamu
