[He pauses in the door way and blinks as he returns from his shift at the infirmary (is he working during the holidays? absolutely). He knows to responding with "it's not important" or "it doesn't matter" is probably the wrong thing to do, even if historically, in his life, it has not actually been terribly important to anyone.]
Well, it's not something I think about very often. [A small beat.] Except when Newt asks on his surveys.
[Which is how it ended up posted publicly at movie night. He hadn't really thought about the possibility of getting gifts. Aside from the taser cake Newt provided. Which...well, it was creative, at least. And again, he refrains from saying something jaded about gifts not being necessary. Especially since, well, actually, it's kind of nice, in a way. To be thought of. He's been trying not to think about how this is all ending soon. About how his regret won't change where he ends up in Borderland. That he'll probably just go back and end up dying in the street like he was before he awoke on the Ximilia, and at that point he won't be thought of any more at all.
He tries not to think about it, and he definitely doesn't talk about it. Especially right now.
Instead he focuses on Alina, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward as he takes her in, the mess of paint in her hair and on her hands. This has always been his favorite version of her. Or, one of them, anyway.]
[ it's not an unfamiliar line of thought. her own seems pockmarked by years of loneliness, but — there had always been scraps, like crumbs to a feast. moments with mal that had purged her early birthdays of any misery, even if they'd been spent in moth-bitten clothing, chewing on stale pieces of bread and wishing for winter to warm.
now, she wonders if there will come a point where birthdays become a childish concept. just a speck of dust in the midst of her long-lived life, incomparable to an eternity. her lips roll together, rubbing into a wet slide, muting the accusation that wants to pour out — that he's cleverly dodging the subject, the way one ducks out of a passerby's way on the street. graceful, yes, but obvious.
she'd call him on it, if she didn't understand so thoroughly what the day must represent, for the children they'd been. instead, she picks at the paint caked into the valleys of her knuckles, in smears of rosy pink and oceanic blue. ]
I was trying to, [ she mumbles, after a considering hum. ] But then I thought of something better.
[ her chin gestures to his wall, in all of its sterile shades of ximilia's interior decoration. it is, quite frankly, a sad color choice, in her (not-so-expert) opinion. (which, she thinks, makes it perhaps more fitting for chishiya's tastes — but that hardly means she's going to stand for it.) ]
You and I are going to redecorate.
[ it's a clever enough plan for someone like her. sly, in its own right. if he's going to be peculiar about receiving gifts, then — he's bound to feel better to have earned it. to be put to work for it.
questionably sound alina starkov logic, in any case. ]
[Okay, well, that’s not what he expected. He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, intrigued. And maybe slightly bemused.]
Redecorate?
[He glances around the room, and…well, okay, he definitely never got around to doing much with it. The only attempt at home making remains the little cactus Alina chose for him all those months ago on Nuhiri. He supposes it’s not a bad idea. If nothing else, it’s an excuse to spend time with Alina.
His gaze slides to the bag she deposited on the floor when he entered the room, then shifts back to her.]
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no subject
Well, it's not something I think about very often. [A small beat.] Except when Newt asks on his surveys.
[Which is how it ended up posted publicly at movie night. He hadn't really thought about the possibility of getting gifts. Aside from the taser cake Newt provided. Which...well, it was creative, at least. And again, he refrains from saying something jaded about gifts not being necessary. Especially since, well, actually, it's kind of nice, in a way. To be thought of. He's been trying not to think about how this is all ending soon. About how his regret won't change where he ends up in Borderland. That he'll probably just go back and end up dying in the street like he was before he awoke on the Ximilia, and at that point he won't be thought of any more at all.
He tries not to think about it, and he definitely doesn't talk about it. Especially right now.
Instead he focuses on Alina, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward as he takes her in, the mess of paint in her hair and on her hands. This has always been his favorite version of her. Or, one of them, anyway.]
You've been painting.
no subject
now, she wonders if there will come a point where birthdays become a childish concept. just a speck of dust in the midst of her long-lived life, incomparable to an eternity. her lips roll together, rubbing into a wet slide, muting the accusation that wants to pour out — that he's cleverly dodging the subject, the way one ducks out of a passerby's way on the street. graceful, yes, but obvious.
she'd call him on it, if she didn't understand so thoroughly what the day must represent, for the children they'd been. instead, she picks at the paint caked into the valleys of her knuckles, in smears of rosy pink and oceanic blue. ]
I was trying to, [ she mumbles, after a considering hum. ] But then I thought of something better.
[ her chin gestures to his wall, in all of its sterile shades of ximilia's interior decoration. it is, quite frankly, a sad color choice, in her (not-so-expert) opinion. (which, she thinks, makes it perhaps more fitting for chishiya's tastes — but that hardly means she's going to stand for it.) ]
You and I are going to redecorate.
[ it's a clever enough plan for someone like her. sly, in its own right. if he's going to be peculiar about receiving gifts, then — he's bound to feel better to have earned it. to be put to work for it.
questionably sound alina starkov logic, in any case. ]
no subject
Redecorate?
[He glances around the room, and…well, okay, he definitely never got around to doing much with it. The only attempt at home making remains the little cactus Alina chose for him all those months ago on Nuhiri. He supposes it’s not a bad idea. If nothing else, it’s an excuse to spend time with Alina.
His gaze slides to the bag she deposited on the floor when he entered the room, then shifts back to her.]
What did you have in mind?