[ Amos turns to look from the pool back at Dextera — the real one, not the one whose reflection is alongside his. His voice is a little surprised, not really having expected to be met with that word at all. Is that what he's being?
He lets the word hang in the air, frowning in thought as he turns to look back into the water, at the way his own memories seem to come up to the surface. He turns his head — away from the ones at the beginning of his life, those will be closed off no matter what, always, he doesn't want to look at them either — and picks one at random.
He'd call it innocuous, but he'd call most of them that. It makes no difference to him.
Amos watches with blank eyes as the memory comes up to the surface — him and three others, two men and one woman, seated around a table in the galley of a spaceship. One of the men is serving up something that could pass for lasagna, talking about everything that went into it. Lots of soy. The other man and woman are both listening with something akin to fond interest while also ready to just eat; the Amos in the memory — younger by just a couple of years — is in the process of sitting down and waiting his turn, a smile that's simultaneously blank and affectionate on his face. Like he can only actually feel part of what he's feeling, the rest drowned out into something muted.
The Amos standing at the pool's edge blinks as the memory starts to play out, tilting his head slightly. ]
We always made time at least once a week to eat together. [ His voice is rough; Amos clears his throat, proceeds like nothing was ever the matter. ] Family dinner, they called it.
[ In the memory, with three bowls already filled up, the younger Amos just takes the tray the lasagna was served in and jabs his fork into it, freeing up his first bite directly from the source. The woman laughs; the man who had been doing the serving takes one of the already-filled bowls for himself and digs into it, smiling into it with a comment about how glad he is that what he cooked is popular. The other man says something to Amos about eating more than his fill, to which a smiling Amos retorts that he does the most heavy lifting around here, he's the one who's gonna put those calories to the most use, which draws another laugh.
The present-day Amos looks on with little in the way of an expression, like he's watching some domestic scene from a movie and not what was evidently a happy part of his own life. ]
Alex was always real proud of that recipe. Think he roped me into making the sauce that time.
no subject
[ Amos turns to look from the pool back at Dextera — the real one, not the one whose reflection is alongside his. His voice is a little surprised, not really having expected to be met with that word at all. Is that what he's being?
He lets the word hang in the air, frowning in thought as he turns to look back into the water, at the way his own memories seem to come up to the surface. He turns his head — away from the ones at the beginning of his life, those will be closed off no matter what, always, he doesn't want to look at them either — and picks one at random.
He'd call it innocuous, but he'd call most of them that. It makes no difference to him.
Amos watches with blank eyes as the memory comes up to the surface — him and three others, two men and one woman, seated around a table in the galley of a spaceship. One of the men is serving up something that could pass for lasagna, talking about everything that went into it. Lots of soy. The other man and woman are both listening with something akin to fond interest while also ready to just eat; the Amos in the memory — younger by just a couple of years — is in the process of sitting down and waiting his turn, a smile that's simultaneously blank and affectionate on his face. Like he can only actually feel part of what he's feeling, the rest drowned out into something muted.
The Amos standing at the pool's edge blinks as the memory starts to play out, tilting his head slightly. ]
We always made time at least once a week to eat together. [ His voice is rough; Amos clears his throat, proceeds like nothing was ever the matter. ] Family dinner, they called it.
[ In the memory, with three bowls already filled up, the younger Amos just takes the tray the lasagna was served in and jabs his fork into it, freeing up his first bite directly from the source. The woman laughs; the man who had been doing the serving takes one of the already-filled bowls for himself and digs into it, smiling into it with a comment about how glad he is that what he cooked is popular. The other man says something to Amos about eating more than his fill, to which a smiling Amos retorts that he does the most heavy lifting around here, he's the one who's gonna put those calories to the most use, which draws another laugh.
The present-day Amos looks on with little in the way of an expression, like he's watching some domestic scene from a movie and not what was evidently a happy part of his own life. ]
Alex was always real proud of that recipe. Think he roped me into making the sauce that time.