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Verona stands before three relatively big bags and looks at them with a lopsided smile, which, at the moment, is meant to convey anticipation and something close to joy.
Ash is behind her, leaning against the door frame. Verona accidentally and unwillingly borrowed some of Ash’s little habits, moves and speech peculiarities, and she enjoys seeing that it has been mutual.
She empties the biggest bag on their bed, and looks over its content. It's clothes, mostly black, because duh, but there are also reds, occasional greens, and blues. Dark. Or at least darker than that borderline-cerulean shit she had to wear for not a very long period of time, but long enough to get sick of it not only because it was the colour of oppression. But mostly because of it.
A skirt (imagine that!) is picked up and examined again, and Verona's smile is now a full-fledged grin. She feels a need to explain, even though it's a stupid notion.
“I’m not always practical. I like fancy stuff. Absurdly stupid stuff, sometimes. On the day we met, for example,” and she can't help but wince. “I guess you would have noticed if you weren't too busy being the fascist you were.”
She almost said you are.
Weird.
It might have something to do with what Ash is wearing today. It's exhaustingly utilitarian – not militaristic, thank god, but uncannily… CW-like?
Would never have thought I’d have to lecture someone on fashion. But we definitely need to talk.
This thought process only takes three quarters of a second, and she continues, “But if I could marry the concept of pockets, I would.”
Ash huffs.
“There's nothing that can't be made better by more pockets,” concludes Verona.
“I've got to go,” Ash says with a guilty expression on her face, and it's hard for Verona to read into it enough to understand if it's genuine. Which, obviously, is an argument for the contrary.
“No shopping montage, then?”
Verona's disappointment is very much genuine.
“Shopping montage?” Ash raises her brow, and Verona raises both of hers in response.
She doesn't say anything, though. It's something to dwell on later.
“Ah, forget it. Go. I know you're busy.”
“Thanks,” Ash comes up to her, pecks her on the cheek and leaves the room without looking back.
Now Verona is left with too many things to think of. Ah, and a pile of badass clothes.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
I'm twice a teenager yet apparently my brain still hasn't developed enough.
She falls onto the bed, makes a snow angel out of the pieces of fabrics, and stares at the ceiling with no energy to get up and do something positive.
But to think about all those things?
Now we are talking.
Can it be that Ash's childhood was less happy than hers? Sounds like nonsense, but apparently, it may be possible? She might've had no opportunity to study the culture of the past – it being silly films Verona and her gang would find in abandoned houses and other places; maybe books; definitely music. This mere idea sounds awful and stinks of the Commonworld.
She sighs. Her heart is heavy now, and she feels a sting there. It's compassion. And love. And hatred.
It seems stupid to think – at least when put into these words – that she fell in love with the potential; that she saw in Ash the good that had been buried deep.
I fell in love because I'm a fucking moron.
Moreover, to think that it was her who guided Ash to the…
She facepalms.
…to the light, because what actually guided Ash to the light were rose-tinted glasses broken and ground back into sand, and it was inevitable as soon as she left Earth.
I need to read less, what the bloody hell is this?
Oh. I know what this is. Apologetic shit.
Verona must get up and sort the clothes, or go outside, or bang her head against the wall at least three therapeutic times.
Instead, she curls up and abstractly berates herself for all the mistakes she's ever made, which takes the form of staring into space and feeling nauseous, no actual words.
And she’s so good at it – practice makes perfect – that she only comes back to her senses when it’s almost dark and the door to the room quietly opens.
She turns to see Ash.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Ash whispers and sits down next to Verona.
“I wasn’t asl—”
Something’s wrong.
It’s just a gut feeling at first, but the clues instantly make the puzzle complete, and once again Verona’s mind works fast, but this time a little too fast for her liking.
Ash’s voice is deeper than usual, it’s evident even in whispering, and the little light that’s there in the room is reflected off her cheeks.
It’s the perfect time to get up, not to say anything, to put her palm gently on Ash’s back. Well, at least it was what Verona would want someone to do if she was crying.
She fully expects Ash to flinch, but she doesn’t. And she isn’t crying as much as vibrating with… anger, probably?
Verona is curious as a cat (and has almost been killed for that several times), but she bites her tongue. She’ll know what happened when the time comes.
At some point, however, Ash suddenly hugs her and starts crying for real, and Verona panics a bit.
You know precisely that it’s better when you don’t talk.
“Can I help?” she says instead.
Well, at least it’s not the fucking “are you fine”.
Ash shakes her head, and it finally dawns on Verona that she kinda should hug Ash back.
She’s not used that much to being the one who comforts, and always fucking forgets what worked the last time. She was sure she exceeded her lifetime quota during those first weeks on Arcadia.
But this time, it's different.
I wish I knew why, bloody mentalist.
This time, it's not about feelings or emotions – in the sense that it's not personal.
Ash groans and breaks out of Verona's arms.
What the fuck did I do wrong?
She didn't, though.
Ash drills a hole in the floor with her eyes and curses – not imaginatively enough to beat Verona at that, but still dirty, much dirtier than Verona's ever heard from her.
It's righteous fury, she finally realises.
She gets up, turns the lights on, and sits back on the bed again, putting a leg over another at the ankle.
“Tell me everything those bastards did,” she says, and Ash starts talking.
Verona does her best to filter (i.e. ignore) what is said so it won't trigger something bad in her own brain, but all in all, it all is about the Commonworld soldiers who Ash questioned for a few hours and who starred as main characters in horrible recordings that were used as evidence in their case.
“Does her best” in question is holding breath so the heartbeat in her ears dampens the words, and desperately praying it ends, but she keeps going and not telling Ash to shut up, because it's what she needs to be. The one who’s there.
Two things are making her feel better at this particular moment: her ability to avoid panic attacks; and the fact that Ash cares.
Actually cares. That much.
How very egoistical of you.
Finally, Ash goes silent, still steaming and breathing heavily, and Verona blurts, “I'm happy it disturbs you.”
“The fuck?” Ash glares at her.
The fuck indeed.
“Shit, sorry. I wanted to say that it is good that you see this as evil. It means you are not one of them any more.”
Ash pauses.
“I guess you are right,” she says slowly.
Verona kisses her.
“Justice will prevail and stuff. I'm happy you've renounced them.”
Thank god you are in love with a good person, after all.
She suddenly thinks about her parents and her childhood – which isn't unexpected, since Ash was just talking about, erm, similar cases. Justice will never fucking prevail once and for all, but damn, does she want to convince herself otherwise.
“Your clothes,” Ash suddenly mutters.
“What's with them?”
“Try them on, I haven't seen you in them.”
“Is this an excuse to see me naked?” Verona asks, already digging for a top she wanted to try out first.
“Yes and no. I just hope that other cases of me caring about things make you happy as well.”