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[called_lioness]

Lucy's curled up in a pile of leaves.

She's still, mostly, in a grand mood, which is what really must be the case when one's husband has stopped, as she puts it, "being stupid," and when there's a mug of hot chocolate to warm you on a cool day, and when even though you're not sleeping all that much more you find you're not as tired as you were a week ago.

So she can curl up in the leaves and look at the clouds, as Corella's been cared for, and hum to herself a little.

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[called_lioness]

He's not supposed to do that. He's not, and she's furious, except it's Adam, so she doesn't mind, he's just not suppoesd to, except maybe he is and it's that he wasn't and she doesn't know how that changed or why it's okay now except it is and she feels angry anyway and she doesn't know why.

But she doesn't sound angry, just almost sad, as she looks at the clouds and says, "But I want to." Sad and small and young and she never sounds the last two, almost. Not any more.

[last_adam]

He's Adam, and he does what he does, and there isn't much more than that.



"You're not ready."

[called_lioness]

"It's not fair!"

But he's right, and she knows it, because there's so much more to walk and she can't get there yet, even if she ran every night, there's always more, but it isn't fair and it hurts so much to say it and to add, not aware if she's crying or not, "Why can't it ever even once be fair?" because it doesn't feel like it ever has been, not really.

It would be a temper tantrum if there weren't so much grief and pain in it because it's just not fair.

[last_adam]

Adam sits up then, sighing, or breathing maybe, and offers her a hand, an arm, something.



"Faster won't help," and it's quiet, almost whispered.

[called_lioness]

His hand is always there and always has been and sometimes she thinks that's the most constant thing around, that Adam will hold her hand, and she's quiet and wiping at her eyes with her other hand as she says, "I know." And she does, but it still hurts.

[last_adam]

"I'm sorry," is all he says, and he doesn't say more, because he won't take away the hurt, and he can't help her.






Not with this.

[called_lioness]

She doesn't say "Not your fault," just, "Me too," after several moments and finds she's resting her forehead on her knees.

She hates this. Hates it all and hates feeling helpless and stuck and wishes it were easier.

[last_adam]

"Then it wouldn't be life."

And maybe he doesn't even notice.

[called_lioness]

"It's not, though, is it?" she half-laughs.

[last_adam]

"It's something."

[called_lioness]

"It's in between. It's seeing what you can't have from both sides, and it's wonderful and it's horrible and it's exhausting, Adam."

[last_adam]

"I know."


And he doesn't, quite, but he knows enough.







"Rest."

[called_lioness]

"You don't yet. I hope you never do," she says, honestly, and her head's on knee's still as she holds onto his hand.

"It's hard."

(You have to run as fast as you can just to stay in place.)

[last_adam]

"You can rest now. For a little bit."


It's not a question, not even a suggestion.

[called_lioness]

She'd be so mad and she wouldn't be, at the same time, if she knew.

As it is, she nods, a little, and it's a slow movement where she lifts her head enough to put it on his shoulder.

"Okay," she says back, and closes her eyes.

It's not exactly sleep, and it's not exactly a nap, but it's rest, and she needs that more, anyway, than the other two.

[last_adam]

When she wakes (or not, because she's not really asleep), the sun will have set and it'll be cold out, but there's a blanket nearby, and a hot drink (not chocolate) and Adam is long gone.