[ Her laugh is strange. It's like watching a cat try to bark, or a bird croak. He can't help it, but he begins to laugh along with her, and it only becomes stronger when her own tapers off too fast to be natural. He finds the effect hilarious. Maybe the day's been too long, or he's too tired, but it feels like almost anything could set him off right now.
His grip on the tin slackens in his laughter, enough for her to pull it free without effort. Her words are what make him stop, but his laughing only trails away, lowered, his smile fixed in place, full of delight.
It's doubtful she understands the weight of what she gives him. ]
I'd like that.
[ He lets her take off with it, watching intently as she refills the tin. It isn't enough for a full second portion, but he'll take what he can get.
He won't be as quick, this time. He'll savor it. ]
[His laugh is nice. It's a good accompaniment to her own unnatural sounds, and she appreciates the way it builds, louder once hers stops, covering for its absence. It's warm sounding, alive sounding.
She likes it.
Havoc sits down once she releases the second partly-full tin in to his hand, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers lacing together. Watching, happy to be watching at all.]
Is there a song for times like these... ?
[The music that had seemed to make him so happy. The happiness in others that made her remember how happiness was supposed to look and feel.]
[ His amusement gives way to a brighter enthusiasm, and he's abruptly torn between staying where he is and eating, or moving past Havoc to where his records are. Hunger wins. ]
There's always a song.
[ It's said around a mouthful of soup, as he regards her with real warmth. He loves her budding interest, even if he doesn't say it in so many words. Watching Havoc blossom has been interesting. There's one track that comes to mind, almost instantly, and his gaze becomes more contemplative. ]
I can think of one. Do you know Nina Simone?
[ If Noh-Varr had his way, they'd broadcast Nina Simone across the reality spectrum, but alas. He'll have to settle for spreading the good news himself. ]
["There's always a song". That sounds nice, too. Always something that fit, always something that could be enjoyed. Positive. She supposed people needed something to keep going- whether it was a song, or whatever else could get them through the day.
It was about that, wasn't it. Getting through the day. Living, not just surviving.
(Contractors survived. But after you have a taste of living... you'll do anything to get it back.)
At the question, though, she can only shrug, her small smile turning sheepish.]
[ It's a small matter, so he moves away from her, taking the can with him. Absently, he sips from his soup with one hand and uses the free arm to move his record player into place, thumbing his records until that singular disc comes out. He considers it, his gaze vacant, remembering the feelings and memories he has associated with it. Soft crooning notes. Maybe Havoc will like this. Maybe she won't. But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? Music isn't always swelling happiness. ]
Here.
[ The track he puts on is, perhaps predictably, Sinnerman. It's Simone's best-known hit and one of her easiest to listen to. It opens with a brisk piano and doesn't let off.
He stands there in stark contrast to the powerful, sharp, unrelenting sound, eating slow and methodical. He doesn't look at her, his focus turned elsewhere, outwards. ]
[Maybe she will, and maybe she won't. That was the thing about blank slates, she supposed. When most everything was new, everything was fascinating- even Havoc couldn't guess what music she really liked, not having listened to enough of it. Oh, she'd heard plenty in her years as an agent- radio in the background, live music at events, classical at fine restaurants, buskers on street corners.
But she'd never really listened.
So she listened now, eyes closed, thumb rubbing along the two of her fingers stiffer than the rest absently in time to the pace, paying attention to everything she could. To lyrics, to sound, to the tone of voice. To don't you know I need you? The clapping sounded like something she'd heard in completely different context, in the village square as the men and women stamped their feet and clapped their hands, as the young jumped and whirled, skirts and scarves whirling with them, fast paced, celebration.
Contrasted with the lyrics, that made her think of running, (like she'd run for five years, from the group's who wanted her dead or activated as a Contractor once more.
Her fingers kept time, slowly, a slight tap of her knee joined in.
I need you.
Havoc waits until the gap, spin of the record, to murmur,]
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His grip on the tin slackens in his laughter, enough for her to pull it free without effort. Her words are what make him stop, but his laughing only trails away, lowered, his smile fixed in place, full of delight.
It's doubtful she understands the weight of what she gives him. ]
I'd like that.
[ He lets her take off with it, watching intently as she refills the tin. It isn't enough for a full second portion, but he'll take what he can get.
He won't be as quick, this time. He'll savor it. ]
no subject
She likes it.
Havoc sits down once she releases the second partly-full tin in to his hand, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers lacing together. Watching, happy to be watching at all.]
Is there a song for times like these... ?
[The music that had seemed to make him so happy. The happiness in others that made her remember how happiness was supposed to look and feel.]
no subject
There's always a song.
[ It's said around a mouthful of soup, as he regards her with real warmth. He loves her budding interest, even if he doesn't say it in so many words. Watching Havoc blossom has been interesting. There's one track that comes to mind, almost instantly, and his gaze becomes more contemplative. ]
I can think of one. Do you know Nina Simone?
[ If Noh-Varr had his way, they'd broadcast Nina Simone across the reality spectrum, but alas. He'll have to settle for spreading the good news himself. ]
no subject
It was about that, wasn't it. Getting through the day. Living, not just surviving.
(Contractors survived. But after you have a taste of living... you'll do anything to get it back.)
At the question, though, she can only shrug, her small smile turning sheepish.]
No, sorry.
[But she seemed willing to find out.]
no subject
Here.
[ The track he puts on is, perhaps predictably, Sinnerman. It's Simone's best-known hit and one of her easiest to listen to. It opens with a brisk piano and doesn't let off.
He stands there in stark contrast to the powerful, sharp, unrelenting sound, eating slow and methodical. He doesn't look at her, his focus turned elsewhere, outwards. ]
no subject
But she'd never really listened.
So she listened now, eyes closed, thumb rubbing along the two of her fingers stiffer than the rest absently in time to the pace, paying attention to everything she could. To lyrics, to sound, to the tone of voice. To don't you know I need you? The clapping sounded like something she'd heard in completely different context, in the village square as the men and women stamped their feet and clapped their hands, as the young jumped and whirled, skirts and scarves whirling with them, fast paced, celebration.
Contrasted with the lyrics, that made her think of running, (like she'd run for five years, from the group's who wanted her dead or activated as a Contractor once more.
Her fingers kept time, slowly, a slight tap of her knee joined in.
I need you.
Havoc waits until the gap, spin of the record, to murmur,]
I like the words.
[Eyes still closed.]