gonna_live | (no subject)

(no subject)

Simon's idea of making up for missing a week is for the two of them to pick something they want to do the next week. Something special. And they each get to pick something.

When you think of something you want us to do, name it and we'll do it, he tells her. Absolutely anything.

Kaylee doesn't know what she wants to pick.

Simon's pick is a fancy dinner out at some restaurant that's apparently got to be serving edible gold on a plate for how hard it is to get a reservation. And they have a dress code.

One problem at a time.

At their appointment, Diana suggests a trip to the formal boutique within the Galeries Lafayette, saying that they're known for being helpful and discreet.

What if they laugh, Kaylee says, and Diana shakes her head, and tells her they won't: the store is old, really old, and one of their business tenets since their reformation after the exodus is to be all things to everyone, no exceptions, no matter the event. One of the benefits of jamming everyone from Earth-that-was together -- some of us did learn how to get along, she says, and smiles.

Thus it is that Kaylee enters a small showroom within a ten-story department store, looking nervous, and almost hellaciously awkward.

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"This the part where I ask how your day was?"

She sounds tired; he catches himself before reaching to take one of the bags from her arms.

"It was uneventful, really. How was yours?"

"Had the distinct non-pleasure of findin' something to wear as won't make you ashamed to be seen with me in public." Her voice tightens a little. "Unless I was totally wrong. And how would I know that, anyhow."

The cheer fades out of his face; he opens his mouth, and finds himself without a single thing to say.

"I just -- Simon, did that even occur to you? That I'd have to go and do that?" Tight and miserable, as she starts walking again (and waits for him to follow). "And I don't know where's the right place to go, or what to do, and it matters this time and I never do seem to get it right when it matters without somebody pickin' somethin' for me -- "

He starts walking along with her, his feet completely on automatic pilot.

"It -- no, it didn't occur to me. I thought you might get something of yours from the ship, or --"

"All of it's packed away like it ought to be, considerin' everything. And anyhow it's not good enough, it's all... colors, and frilly, and -- "

She's crying, just a little.

"How am I supposed to know what's not going to shame you? Or what's appropriate, I don't know, I've never known, not ever."

"Kaylee --"

He stops walking. Turns to face her, reaching out with one hand to touch her shoulder.

"Listen to me."

Steady, and certain, and with quiet force.

"You have never shamed me. Not ever."

Anything she wants to do here -- get angry, get sharp, dissolve, cry more --

She can't, can she. Because they're out here on the street.

She bows her head forward, tries to stop crying, and doesn't say anything.

It's not cold enough to snow, but still cold enough to be uncomfortable; and the sky looks like it might rain any minute.

Softly: "Let's get inside, all right?"

She nods, and lifts a hand to wipe at her eyes, and turns away.

He holds out a hand in a silent offer.

She's carrying two bags, and the long one's unwieldy.

Kaylee hands over the one with the shoes, and slips her free hand in her pocket.

In the apartment, Simon sets down the bag on the coffee table and moves about the room turning on lights; it's late in the afternoon and overcast, and the apartment is dim even with the large south window.

Kaylee goes into the bedroom, opens the closet, and hangs up the bag.

It's dark in here. She doesn't mind.

For a moment she rests her head against the wall, and closes her eyes.

The apartment's quiet.

If Kaylee's listening, she'll hear the faint sounds of running water coming from the kitchen, followed by the slightly louder click of the kettle.

After a long moment she lets out a quiet sigh, and shifts to stand straight, and slips her shoes off.

She drifts into the kitchen.

Soft: "I was terrible to you just now. And I'm sorry. I shouldn't've -- "

"I'm sorry."

He turns at her first words.

When she falls silent, he takes a step closer and holds out an arm to her.

She steps in close, her head falling loosely against his shoulder, jaw set.

I don't deserve this --

I have to stop thinking like that. Have to.

Simon wraps one arm around her, rests his cheek against her hair.

Softly: "I didn't realize it was going to be this ... this uncomfortable for you."

"Yeah, well." It's a little muffled. "I got bad taste. You knew that."

"You do not have bad taste," he says, sounding a little startled.

"When it comes to anything real fancy I do."

She doesn't lift her head.

"Party the captain and I went to -- it counts. And everything else was pretty much picked out for me, any time it mattered. And it matters this time and nobody was there to pick it out."

He's not sure what to say; he rubs her shoulder, instead.

After a moment: "Do you want to show me what you picked?"

She nods.

"On me, or on the hanger?"