Octavia Blake (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
okteiviakom) wrote2020-06-22 09:19 pm
okteiviakom) wrote2020-06-22 09:19 pm
The Cape Rouge, Port of Fandom, Monday Morning
Duke was out for his class thing. Octavia wasn't sure for how long, but she was taking a chance, and so she sat at the table in the galley with two things in front of her. One, the phone Duke had given her after she'd shown up. Two, the locket Niylah had made her in the bunker. She'd finally opened it. Taken out the SIM card, and carefully, almost hesitantly put it in the phone.
She was honestly surprised to find it still worked. As soon as she turned the phone on, the notifications poured in. Texts, voicemails, missed calls. Almost all of them from Duke.
For a moment, Octavia just stared at them. And considered just deleting them all without looking.
But when had she last made a sensible choice like that? So instead, she went through the texts, from the selfies with goats through the increasingly worried questions, all the way down to just a picture of the ocean meeting the sky, with no caption, no words attached. She checked the date. A day, two days before she'd come back.
Then she moved on to the voicemails. "You missed lunch. You're not at the flower shop." The texts hadn't been easy, but at least they were short, quick to get through - a little more distant than the voicemails. They were his voice but not his voice.
(And then there was a voicemail that wasn't from Duke -- "So if you don't mind, I think it's time to come out of hiding." -- and that was its own kind of tangled emotion.)
"What's the point of anything if you can just go away? Fuck!" The texts hadn't had the sounds of glass breaking. None of Duke's shaky breaths. "I was and am very fucked up, and people need to stop asking me how I'm doing before I start stabbing them with your sword." She wanted to stop listening. But she also didn't want to miss even a second. All those years of wanting to talk to him, and he'd been talking to her, and his voice was -- "It's okay, you know. If you come back broken."
She wanted to stop listening.
She didn't. There was just one more voicemail left.
"Someday, we'll both be butterflies. And then we'll both be sharks. And then something else we haven't even dreamed of yet, but -- we'll find each other."
She'd just... sit here and let that last one loop a few times.
(Too many times.)
[ooc: Open, but angsty. Duh.]
She was honestly surprised to find it still worked. As soon as she turned the phone on, the notifications poured in. Texts, voicemails, missed calls. Almost all of them from Duke.
For a moment, Octavia just stared at them. And considered just deleting them all without looking.
But when had she last made a sensible choice like that? So instead, she went through the texts, from the selfies with goats through the increasingly worried questions, all the way down to just a picture of the ocean meeting the sky, with no caption, no words attached. She checked the date. A day, two days before she'd come back.
Then she moved on to the voicemails. "You missed lunch. You're not at the flower shop." The texts hadn't been easy, but at least they were short, quick to get through - a little more distant than the voicemails. They were his voice but not his voice.
(And then there was a voicemail that wasn't from Duke -- "So if you don't mind, I think it's time to come out of hiding." -- and that was its own kind of tangled emotion.)
"What's the point of anything if you can just go away? Fuck!" The texts hadn't had the sounds of glass breaking. None of Duke's shaky breaths. "I was and am very fucked up, and people need to stop asking me how I'm doing before I start stabbing them with your sword." She wanted to stop listening. But she also didn't want to miss even a second. All those years of wanting to talk to him, and he'd been talking to her, and his voice was -- "It's okay, you know. If you come back broken."
She wanted to stop listening.
She didn't. There was just one more voicemail left.
"Someday, we'll both be butterflies. And then we'll both be sharks. And then something else we haven't even dreamed of yet, but -- we'll find each other."
She'd just... sit here and let that last one loop a few times.
(Too many times.)
[ooc: Open, but angsty. Duh.]
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And pressed one against his cheek.
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"I'm here," she sighed.
Okay, whispered. Like she couldn't quite believe it.
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"Maybe let's be 'here' in the bedroom," he suggested. "Not -- we don't have to go further if you don't want. But -- not sure if Larceny's home . . . doors are an advantage. . . ."
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"Only if you carry me."
You did not just pick up a queen, no. But it was a whole different situation if she asked you to.
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Duke scooped her up like it was nothing, still hanging onto her waist so she could keep kissing her neck if she liked.
He could be forgiven for hoping this might become a habit. Or a tradition. He rather liked carrying her to his bedroom.
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She clung to him as best she could and, yes, definitely kissed his neck more than once. Turned out being able to do something physical that actually made another person feel good could be kind of intoxicating after years of violence.