( ilde decima ) (
rhinemaid) wrote in
multiversallogs2012-01-21 05:21 pm
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Entry tags:
people talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. love hurts. feelings are disturbing.
Who: Ilde Decima & Ivan.
What: Meg Shao did something for Ilde before she left; Ilde has been meaning to discuss it with Ivan for a while.
Where: Ivan's apartment, Mafaton.
When: Veerdi night.
Notes: The squidbaby cometh. Did you know the gestation period of an octopus is seven months?
Warnings: Uhhh let me get back to you on that as necessary, but the usual probably apply ("reference to trauma").
After a few people know, she stops talking about it; she hadn't wanted to dive right into this conversation with Ivan before they'd both had some time to resettle with her presence in the city, but she doesn't want him to be the last to know, either. It doesn't seem fair, or practical, or a hundred other little things that fit together into this thing she doesn't entirely understand that they are allegedly referring to now as 'a relationship'. If she's planning something drastically life-altering, and he's got some kind of inexplicable investment in her life, then this is one of those things they're supposed to talk about and she doesn't even need someone else to give her the nudge, this time.
She's slowly easing back into work - cello and violin lessons mean working from home, which is easier, and most of her clients have been understanding without asking too many questions (they understand 'Baedal happens' just like everybody else) - and it's easier again than moving back into her wider social spheres. She promises music to Rodolphus and sits in the temple with Jae and sleeps beside Sonja the first couple of nights she's back, which is mostly for her own sake but maybe it can't hurt to be a heartbeat and solid body after emptiness; she thinks about her father, more, and it's a different and easier pain now that door is shut. It feels like survivor's guilt, except she didn't, so mostly it's just shapes without names and her nails pressing into the palms of her hands. She doesn't talk about what happened with Hilmi; she treats Ivan's apartment like her own space, which isn't new.
He's probably getting used to waking up to her eyes, huge and unblinking, and her weight on his thighs. He'll never need to buy a cat.
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No less abrupt, though: "Prometheus had me sterilized, after the storm. Because I'm not human at all any more, I think." It's not as though they discussed it with her in detail. "It's reversed. It's what I was going to tell Hasi before New York."
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"I see." He pauses for a moment. "You know I can't..."
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"Well, it doesn't have to be your sperm," she says, finally.
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"Not that," she says, having evidently realized the worrying ambiguity of her last remark. "I was thinking of donors. I could find out more about it at the Glory Shada." She has a relatively vague idea of what that entails, presently, but she's on the right track with where she'd go to find out more.
(She watched the ritual in Shada's temple and wondered if Remy was right.)
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"You've decided to have a child, then."
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She presses the heel of her hand to the side of her mouth, reorienting herself. Then, "Not in the next five minutes. Yes, though. It's--" a hesitation, settling on, "--important to me."
She holds herself very carefully.
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He's policing his reaction very carefully, for now. He isn't sure exactly how to sort it out yet.
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Then again, as always, he feels better with blood in his system. She's not pregnant yet, nor like to be terribly soon; they have some time left, and then they'd see.
He looks a bit better, as usual after his trips out, when he lets himself in.
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She closes it over her fingertips to hold her place when she looks up-- "Hey, I had a thought."
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They aren't casual any more, they agreed, so she's allowed to think of these things. She's pretty sure. That makes sense.
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"Well, since-- I mean, the conversation we had when I got back..."
Maybe she misjudged what 'not leaving her' entails; she's hesitating, but not quite withdrawing. For once.
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It's perfectly logical.
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She likes the idea of playing it for him first; music is an odd kind of intimacy that she can't quite explain.
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