hot whiskey eyes

Isla

"You're welcome," Isla murmurs against his bare chest as his arms come up to circle her shoulders. "Always." Turning her head to eye up the mess of pillows and blankets, Sunjata's admission is an expected one, which probably explains why Isla does little more than nod her understanding. It is his usual, and while the Remedy isn't capable of staying awake all night any more, there's more than one way to soothe an overactive mind.

"Worried about nightmares?" she guesses softly. "Or just too many thoughts?" Or both, which is a nasty combination Sunjata seems quite adept at, if she says so herself. Snagging at one of his hands to draw him over to the bed, the Remedy pulls back the sheets before heading to the windows, sliding them all open to let in the soft, rhythmic roar of the waves.

"Do you want to do the talking, or shall I?" she asks, returning to bed to climb beneath the blankets; whichever it is, it should hopefully disrupt the cycle preventing the Flood from getting any rest, let alone any sleep.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

There’s a low hum of uncertainty when she suggests nightmares – because those were often inevitable. The times he’s woken up unsure of where he was when the rooms changed too much, offered little hope when he had to lay there and remember that it’s after the war, and that things have changed, and that he’s become adept at being alone. But when she suggests thoughts, he doesn’t know if it’s really that either.

“Both, I think.” He eventually decides, letting her withdraw from him and take his scarred hand to guide him to the bed, to the place where he’d likely spend the next few hours fretting over a variety of things, likely long after Isla’s fallen asleep. But that’s fine, he’ll survive it. He always has. And it might do him some good to come to terms with this heavy conversation before he has even more in the morning.

He feels woefully unprepared as he climbs into the bed alongside her, shifting and maneuvering himself enough to lay partially on his stomach so that one wing can drape over the bed while the other drapes off of it, stretched out lazily. “I can tell you a story about Korofi?” He asks tentatively, unsure if she’d even want to hear stories of his past life when he’d drawn a line in the sand at Business Partner.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

Isla

Shifting to get comfortable under the covers, Isla watches the soft silhouette of Sunjata's wing as it stretches across the bed, before turning on her side to face him. "Mm, if you have stories to tell I'm more than happy to hear them," she says with a gentle nod, tucking an arm beneath her pillow. "As long as they aren't the massively tragic kind. Call me a cynic, but you've not made your old home sound the most welcoming."

Surprisingly, given the late hour and the amount of liquor consumed, the Floor will find her a quietly attentive listener in whatever tale he wants to spin. Because the joke's on you, Sunjata - Isla's got the heavy conversation to come to terms with as well, and an abundance of memories parading through her mind to keep her from sleep.

~FIN

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard