gonna_live | (no subject)

Simon's leaning back against the headboard, his fingers playing idly with the very end of a long lock of hair.

Something chimes, somewhere in the heap of clothes on the floor.

Kaylee ignores it. Thoughtful, and a little dreamy: "Could make the whole thing that color for real. 'F you like it."

"Mmm."

For the moment he's ignoring it too, in favor of shifting closer to his wife.

"Or red." She's using him as a backrest, head falling loose against his shoulder. "Could do that." A light sigh. "Just hard to keep up."

"You could try it once," he murmurs, as one arm finds its way around her. "See how it looks."

"But if you didn't like it -- " She turns her head toward him, eyes closing. " -- it'd be months before I could fix it."

"Why months?"

Simon is not up on the intricacies of dyeing hair.

Sleepily: "Growin' it out's better for it. Than takin' it back and puttin' more chemical in it. Gets rough if you do that."

"Ah."

Another patient chime.

"...I should get that."

Another sigh -- this time longer. Kaylee shifts away, and down, propping her head in her hand. "No yellin' when I fall asleep then."

He leans over to brush a kiss across her cheek. "I won't take too long," he assures her, and slides carefully out of bed.

This isn't their room; there aren't any nightclothes of theirs in here. The undershorts he had on before will have to do, and they're not that far from the jacket that has his reader in its pocket.

Sitting on the floor, he draws it out and keys to the recent message.

Close to a full minute goes by with no sound.

Kaylee's curled under the sheet, long blonde hair spilling out behind her.

He doesn't know what several of those things are about (including the comb and the hair products, though the unknowing echo of what they were just discussing prickles the hair along his arms) but they're clearly items with significance. Pieces of memory.

Liz.

I suspect that you'd agree that it's not wrong to honor your dead.

After another long moment he gets up, taking the reader with him, and slips back into bed.

A sleepy murmur; she opens her eyes. "We gotta go?"

"No," he murmurs back, and slides closer.

"...it was from Jordie."

"Mm." A little sleep-muzzed. She drapes an arm over him.

He settles against her, but it's not the relaxed movement of earlier; more an unconscious seeking of physical comfort.

There's a subtle tension in his arms, in his shoulders, in the changed rhythm of his breathing.

And it doesn't go away.

A few minutes pass.

Kaylee raises her head, and looks up at him with a silent question.

Simon glances at her, and lets out a breath. "Sorry. It was ... it isn't bad news," a little hastily, "but ... "

He's not quite sure how to finish that sentence.

The 'but' is enough.

Kaylee shifts, sitting up. "What is it?"

Simon moves when she does, straightening to put his back against the headboard.

"It's the Day of the Dead," he starts, quietly. "All Souls."

Kaylee draws her knees up to her chest, and doesn't say anything.

"And Jordie's put together a ... an altar, I think they're called. Sort of a shrine." Beat. "For Liz. He sent me a capture."

Now Kaylee really doesn't say anything.

"They do that at his church." Soft. "On All Souls. I'd almost forgotten."