Slowly, she finished calming, in no small part softened by the pain of empathy. Nevermind that he was uniquely ill-equipped to deal with the loss of death: she wasn't going to tell him that experience didn't make it a hell of a lot easier. That wouldn't help the hurt in his voice.
"There's a whole industry built on that question," she murmured: then, hissing through her teeth at her own sardonic comment, she stepped forward instead, put her arms around him. It was hard for her to offer him physical solace, being more or less half his size, but... but now she gave it a game try, reaching high to put arms around his shoulders, pull him in in case he wanted to hide his face against her. "I don't really know," she answered more honestly, quiet. "Everyone's different -- every time is different."
Dissatisfied, she thought of ways she'd heard of other people coping with this particular loss. A lot of them were things she'd laugh or scoff at, at times when she had the luxury of not being close to such a loss. Certainly she couldn't see them making a tiny coffin and having a tiny burial. But there were other things and, thrown a life-preserver, you don't bitch about the color it is.
"It was... going to be our baby." She was almost whispering, tentative in her own right. "I don't know, do you want to... to give it one of the names we'd talked about?" She bit her lip, too: referring to the baby as an 'it'. She had checked the sex. She'd never told him, she'd been holding it as a surprise, or for when he asked. Even more quietly she mumbled, "it was going to be another girl."
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21/5/14 04:43 (UTC)"There's a whole industry built on that question," she murmured: then, hissing through her teeth at her own sardonic comment, she stepped forward instead, put her arms around him. It was hard for her to offer him physical solace, being more or less half his size, but... but now she gave it a game try, reaching high to put arms around his shoulders, pull him in in case he wanted to hide his face against her. "I don't really know," she answered more honestly, quiet. "Everyone's different -- every time is different."
Dissatisfied, she thought of ways she'd heard of other people coping with this particular loss. A lot of them were things she'd laugh or scoff at, at times when she had the luxury of not being close to such a loss. Certainly she couldn't see them making a tiny coffin and having a tiny burial. But there were other things and, thrown a life-preserver, you don't bitch about the color it is.
"It was... going to be our baby." She was almost whispering, tentative in her own right. "I don't know, do you want to... to give it one of the names we'd talked about?" She bit her lip, too: referring to the baby as an 'it'. She had checked the sex. She'd never told him, she'd been holding it as a surprise, or for when he asked. Even more quietly she mumbled, "it was going to be another girl."