[ it had been giovanni to let her in, what with sonia working hard and diligently in her room. olivia herself is not eager to disturb the young woman, knowing full well how important her work is, and how dire the situation has become. still, it is not in her heart to simply do nothing, and thus she has stopped by, once more, arms laden with paper bags full of ingredients, intent on taking advantage of their spacious kitchen to make large batches of stew.
she had thanked giovanni but ushered him away, insisting she did not wish to bother anyone during her stay. however, about fifteen minutes into it, she realizes she does not have a great grasp of where things are, and so perhaps makes a little too much noise looking for their larger pots... far more than necessary, and certainly quite a lot for someone with over-sensitive hearing.
especially when she accidentally drops a pot, too... oops... ]
[He's only slightly surprised to see her. The way things are now, the steady progression of Sonia's infection-- they haven't had much in the way of visitors, lately. There's a part of him that wonders whether he ought to usher her away, as much for her safety as for Sonia's concerns, but there's something insistent in Olivia's face, a subtle kind of need. Without being able to put it into words, he nonetheless thinks he understands. And besides all that, he trusts in himself to be able to keep the situation under control. Should things go awry, he can restrain his 'sibling', prevent her from doing anything that would weigh heavy on her conscience if - no, when, a small mental correction that he doesn't entirely believe - they find a resolution to their current problems.
And so he lets her in, allows himself to be shooed away from the kitchen without protest-- it's still easier on him, spending his time in self-imposed solitude, closed off in his room, quite alone. But the clatter and crash of pots from the kitchen eventually becomes enough of an irritant to draw him back out, and soon Olivia will find him standing in the doorway, one thin brow raised above the rim of his orange lenses. He keeps his face free of overt irritation, but there's a question written there in its place.]
Yes, [ she lies, in such a way that the slight strain evident in her voice is telling enough of how deep the lie is. she isn't normally so clumsy, despite what her own disparaging words would have one believe, and yet today she cannot seem to go two steps without bumping into something, or nearly dropping a utensil, or otherwise harming herself with a strangely unsteady hand. she is not infected, and has been one of the lucky few who are human who have yet to be in danger of being infected, but a shallow look at her might make it seem so — the sunken eyes, the jitters that linger in her limbs. she has not been sleeping, at least not well, and given her propensity to exert her energies using her powers on others...
she lets out a brief, quiet sigh. more a hissing between her teeth than anything else. ]
[he stands there a moment, silent and poised, hips and shoulder leaning loose against the door frame as he looks her over with a critical eye. There's something wrong, exhaustion and strain showing through the cracks in her demeanor, enough that even something like him can discern the signs of it. Almost imperceptibly, his brows pull together on the smallest of frowns.]
Are you all right?
[And the words, they seem almost foreign and strange as they roll off his tongue-- he's unaccustomed to paying attention to the wellbeing of others, rarely - if ever - notices it at all. But on this occasion, it seems he has.]
[ it is not a question she expects to hear from him, and so she is caught quite off-guard and very nearly drops the pot again. fortunately, she doesn't, but she does hasten to finally set it on the stove like she'd initially meant to. ]
I'm doing much better than most, [ she responds after a moment, defaulting to an answer she's learned to keep giving since the worst of the infections began to spread. comparatively, always comparatively, she is doing well.
[A moment of silence, and then, when he responds, his voice is a quiet thing.]
Better than most. Yes. I suppose, given our circumstances, that it's something.
[It doesn't mean that the vague traces of concern cease to be present in him, the tight tugging in his chest as he observes her now, pale and fraught as a wraith. He doesn't quite know what to make of it, these feelings, and there's a sensation of disquiet in him over what appears to be his growing attachment to those around him, but--]
I'm all right, of course.
[Well. He never is, but comparatively speaking. He mirrors her words--]
[ there is something wry in the twist of her lips when she hears him echo her, not once, but twice. for a moment, they simply share a quiet look of understanding; perhaps not one so deep as to know it all, but enough that there is indeed something quiet unspoken between them.
i am not okay. and yet i am, because compared to everyone else, i get to be.
she sighs a little, willing some of that tension from her shoulders. she turns back to the kitchen, gesturing to the utensils and ingredients she has laid out before them. ]
Would you like to help me, Giovanni? I suppose I could use another set of hands.
[Something quiet unspoken between them, a little shiver of connection, and again there are those feelings in him, something like a pebble being tossed into a still pool, ripples circling out. He doesn't quite know what it means, but there's something soft yet sharp-edged in it, sensations at odds with each other but present all the same.
Quickly, he pulls back from it. From the small shared experience that places him, for one unbalancing moment, so firmly in the present rather than lost to the past or his own uncertain future.
Instead, he nods, and if there's a hesitance in him it's one that's hard to see. He peels away from the door frame. Moves closer.]
[ as soon as he draws near enough, without any hesitation, she offers the knife to him, handle-first. there is no reservation on her expression — just patient expectation. ]
Will you chop up these carrots for me, please? When you are done, there are a few pounds of meet I would like you to cut into chunks.
[ perhaps, then, if they are both busy — their hands, at least, never their minds — the voices will give them some reprieve... ]
[He takes it, and there's a flash of something ugly and dark red in his thoughts when he feels the weight of the blade in his hand, the slight pressure and scrabble coming from the Spine, but it goes ignored, pressed down and held in. He'll move to take his place at the counter with such casual ease that such things seem to be far from his mind, moves to do exactly as she's asked.]
That shouldn't be too much trouble, I think. Though I warn you, I know nothing about food preparation. Hahah.
[He starts cutting though, and his movements are unnaturally quick, precise.]
[ her gaze drops down to the sliced pieces, noting how near uniformed they are. ]
It seems you're a natural, [ she provides after a moment, the corners of her lips turning up in a faint smile. sure, it's just chopping, but it's still a pretty necessary part of the process. this way, they'll cook much more evenly, so he really is helping in the long run. ]
When you're finished with those, maybe you should move on to the meats.
[And it's true enough-- very neat, so close to uniform, done with sliced with perfect precision. Perhaps he doesn't know much about good, but he does know how to cut, how to wield a sharp implement. Crookedly, he smiles in the wake of her praise, some part of him quietly pleased to have done something right whilst the larger part scoffs at himself for such feelings, the need, even now, to be told he's done well.]
I suppose it's all the same, ultimately. The act of cutting, no matter what it's directed towards.
[His tone is slightly wry, but he does as he's been asked and places the sliced carrots to one side. Turns his attention to the meat, instead.]
[ at that, olivia gives off a faint, thoughtful sound. her own hands busy themselves with tossing in a number of spices and smaller ingredients into a nearby simmering pot. ]
I suppose, like with most things, there is an opportunity to do good or bad...
[A moment of silence follows her words, interrupted only by the rhythmic sound of his knife slicing through meat and striking the board underneath. He is thinking, turning her words over carefully in his mine like a beach comber inspecting seashells, and when he speaks, his voice is equally careful. Thoughtful.]
Good or bad. But things like that, it's all just a point of view, isn't it? Concepts created by people rather than immutable facts that exist outside of social structures.
[ olivia's head tips slightly at that. she had begun to peel at a potato, and in the process she'd accidentally nicked herself with the blade of the knife. is it a small cut, though, easily healed away with a fraction of a thought. not a single drop of blood spilled. ]
You do not think there are such things as indisputable truths?
[He looks up too in the wake of her pause, glances briefly in her direction, and another moment of silence follows as he thinks this over, considers it. Slowly, he shrugs.]
Some things, perhaps. But things like good and evil, right and wrong...they're just a point of view.
[But he still sounds a little unsure of himself, not quite certain. What had been done to him, the circumstances of his existence-- he'd be lying if he said he believed it to be a 'good' thing, if he said he thought what had happened to him and his siblings was 'right'.]
[ olivia glances down at her own hands now, fingers curled almost protectively. she makes no comment on those things — right and wrong, good and evil... she does not think herself knowledgeable enough to warrant an opinion.
[The question, there's the smallest faltering in the rhythm of his chopping as she asks it, a slight tension in his face that could quite easily be missed if her eyes aren't on him, or by a person unaccustomed to his subtleties. There's a sharp feeling behind his ribs as though the knife has sunk into him there, briefly pierced him, but then it's gone again. He keeps his voice smooth and even as he responds, almost dismissive. Perhaps too carefully so.]
[His voice remains just as smooth, just as careful, and perhaps her last words had not been meant for his ears, but they reach him all the same. He wonders at them, just briefly, but he never has been inclined to pry into the details of other people's lives. A condition brought about through indifference, mostly, though not so in this particular case.
It's in part an answer to her quiet-spoken words, part an extension of his own feelings, that he adds--]
[There's a slight pause then, a somewhat awkward silence whilst something in Giovanni's head clicks and whirs, tries to decide on a cause of action. He doesn't look up from what he's doing, keeps his face focused and still, but--]
[Slowly he nods, keeps chopping, and quietly something stirs in him, a subtle jitter of feeling behind his ribs as again, her emotional state pushes against him like something almost physically felt. A strange thing, for something like him, who tends to walk around as though he's the only solid inhabitant in a world of ghosts, or perhaps as though he himself is the spectre, the haunt, unseen and removed from all those around him. And yet here he is, aware of her quiet unhappiness rather than mired so deeply within his own that he's unable to see outside of himself. It seems there's something he ought to be saying, or doing, and when he can't think of the right way to respond there comes a subtle rush of frustration through him, though outwardly it barely shows outside of the length of his silence, the slight tightening of his brow.]
My apologies that I can't be of more assistance.
[It's the only thing he can think of to say, in the end.]
[ a few beats of silence pass, during which nothing but the steady sound of giovanni's rhythmic chopping can be heard. for a while there she seems lost in her own world, eyes glazed and distant — or are they simply glossy from unshed tears?
whatever the case may be, she seems to snap out of it before long. a small but easy smile settles across her lips, and her hand soon finds his own, fearlessly or perhaps foolishly reaching for the one curled around the knife. ]
Thank you for listening, [ she tells him plainly. ] Just doing that is more than enough.
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( giovanni )
she had thanked giovanni but ushered him away, insisting she did not wish to bother anyone during her stay. however, about fifteen minutes into it, she realizes she does not have a great grasp of where things are, and so perhaps makes a little too much noise looking for their larger pots... far more than necessary, and certainly quite a lot for someone with over-sensitive hearing.
especially when she accidentally drops a pot, too... oops... ]
no subject
And so he lets her in, allows himself to be shooed away from the kitchen without protest-- it's still easier on him, spending his time in self-imposed solitude, closed off in his room, quite alone. But the clatter and crash of pots from the kitchen eventually becomes enough of an irritant to draw him back out, and soon Olivia will find him standing in the doorway, one thin brow raised above the rim of his orange lenses. He keeps his face free of overt irritation, but there's a question written there in its place.]
Everything all right in here?
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she lets out a brief, quiet sigh. more a hissing between her teeth than anything else. ]
I'm sorry — it must have been slippery.
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Are you all right?
[And the words, they seem almost foreign and strange as they roll off his tongue-- he's unaccustomed to paying attention to the wellbeing of others, rarely - if ever - notices it at all. But on this occasion, it seems he has.]
no subject
I'm doing much better than most, [ she responds after a moment, defaulting to an answer she's learned to keep giving since the worst of the infections began to spread. comparatively, always comparatively, she is doing well.
and, out of another reflex, she shoots back: ]
How are you?
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Better than most. Yes. I suppose, given our circumstances, that it's something.
[It doesn't mean that the vague traces of concern cease to be present in him, the tight tugging in his chest as he observes her now, pale and fraught as a wraith. He doesn't quite know what to make of it, these feelings, and there's a sensation of disquiet in him over what appears to be his growing attachment to those around him, but--]
I'm all right, of course.
[Well. He never is, but comparatively speaking. He mirrors her words--]
Better than most.
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i am not okay. and yet i am, because compared to everyone else, i get to be.
she sighs a little, willing some of that tension from her shoulders. she turns back to the kitchen, gesturing to the utensils and ingredients she has laid out before them. ]
Would you like to help me, Giovanni? I suppose I could use another set of hands.
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Quickly, he pulls back from it. From the small shared experience that places him, for one unbalancing moment, so firmly in the present rather than lost to the past or his own uncertain future.
Instead, he nods, and if there's a hesitance in him it's one that's hard to see. He peels away from the door frame. Moves closer.]
I could give it a shot.
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Will you chop up these carrots for me, please? When you are done, there are a few pounds of meet I would like you to cut into chunks.
[ perhaps, then, if they are both busy — their hands, at least, never their minds — the voices will give them some reprieve... ]
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That shouldn't be too much trouble, I think. Though I warn you, I know nothing about food preparation. Hahah.
[He starts cutting though, and his movements are unnaturally quick, precise.]
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It seems you're a natural, [ she provides after a moment, the corners of her lips turning up in a faint smile. sure, it's just chopping, but it's still a pretty necessary part of the process. this way, they'll cook much more evenly, so he really is helping in the long run. ]
When you're finished with those, maybe you should move on to the meats.
no subject
I suppose it's all the same, ultimately. The act of cutting, no matter what it's directed towards.
[His tone is slightly wry, but he does as he's been asked and places the sliced carrots to one side. Turns his attention to the meat, instead.]
no subject
I suppose, like with most things, there is an opportunity to do good or bad...
[ MAKES YOU THINK, DOESN'T IT, GIOVANNI... ]
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Good or bad. But things like that, it's all just a point of view, isn't it? Concepts created by people rather than immutable facts that exist outside of social structures.
[Does he believe that? He isn't sure.]
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You do not think there are such things as indisputable truths?
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Some things, perhaps. But things like good and evil, right and wrong...they're just a point of view.
[But he still sounds a little unsure of himself, not quite certain. What had been done to him, the circumstances of his existence-- he'd be lying if he said he believed it to be a 'good' thing, if he said he thought what had happened to him and his siblings was 'right'.]
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at least not over dinner. ]
What about love?
[ love, on the other hand... ]
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I wouldn't know about that.
[Both true and untrue.]
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slowly, carefully, her hands resume their peeling. ]
Perhaps you will learn, soon, [ she murmurs. and, in a softer voice that may or may not be intended for his ears, she adds: ]
May your teacher be far kinder than mine.
no subject
[His voice remains just as smooth, just as careful, and perhaps her last words had not been meant for his ears, but they reach him all the same. He wonders at them, just briefly, but he never has been inclined to pry into the details of other people's lives. A condition brought about through indifference, mostly, though not so in this particular case.
It's in part an answer to her quiet-spoken words, part an extension of his own feelings, that he adds--]
Perhaps it's best not to.
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Yes, [ she answers a moment later. louder, but that much more hollow, too. ]
Perhaps it is.
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Are you all right?
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...I don't know. But I have been told that I will be, eventually. I suppose I am still just waiting.
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My apologies that I can't be of more assistance.
[It's the only thing he can think of to say, in the end.]
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whatever the case may be, she seems to snap out of it before long. a small but easy smile settles across her lips, and her hand soon finds his own, fearlessly or perhaps foolishly reaching for the one curled around the knife. ]
Thank you for listening, [ she tells him plainly. ] Just doing that is more than enough.
(no subject)