(no subject)
((Takes place on April 5th, shortly after Mina's visit to Koushirou and Tentomon.))
He knew she was angry by the way she moved.
He knew what to look for -- the tight little turns at the corners of her mouth, the quick, precise movements of her hands as she sorted through her magazines in search of a distraction, the way she wouldn't look at him as she moved about the room. He sat with his head down on his forelegs, watching her.
So she was angry. Fine. He was angry too. She'd reprimanded him in front of two others; she'd had him leave like he was a child . . . or worse, a *pet.* He'd been wronged too. Let her be angry. He twisted on the bed, rolling on his side so that he faced away from her. She could apologize. There was nothing wrong with what he'd said to Koushirou and the bug thing; it was true. Eventually she'd come to realize that, and understand that he'd simply said what she could not. He'd seen her; he lived with her. He knew what it meant to her to be living in another country . . . he knew what that support from even a distant point of familiarity would have meant to her in her earliest days.
And really, what did she need Koushirou or Tentomon for, anyway? She *did* have him. She'd always had him. That glow on her face as she'd stood humming, brushing out her hair in front of the mirror, preparing to go . . . even now it twisted at his gut. She didn't need them. He watched the misty end of his hindquarters filter off into empty air, a glower taking over his features.
It was then that he noticed the silence of the room.
He twisted over his shoulder to look at her. She sat reading a much-battered Hindi magazine, the pages crinkled with use. She'd taken it from the airplane; it was the last bit of India that she'd taken with her to Japan, and she'd made use of it. She'd read the articles several times, but she read again as though they were new, a small frown creasing the corners of her mouth. Her legs were drawn up beneath her, her feet bare and peering out from the edge of her sari -- like a child trying to get as much close to herself as she could. Her head rested on her knees.
He'd made her upset. He, who was supposed to look after her, protect her. He wasn't supposed to be making her unhappy . . .
His insides twitched, but this time for a different reason. Rolling completely over, he watched her in full. She took no notice of him.
These people, being around them, trying to meet with them . . . for some reason, it made her happy. As frustrated as he knew she became . . . she wanted this. She wanted to try. She wanted to give it her all. Standing in her way was going to make her unhappy. She was his Mina, his Chosen . . . of all people, she should be happy. These people . . . well, they hadn't done her any harm. Not serious harm, not yet.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . .
Slowly he pushed off the bed, drifting over to her. When she didn't look up, he nosed under her arm, peering up at her from the crook of it, blue eyes wide. She tried not to look, but he felt her give slowly, a shift of muscle that told him she was listening.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm still angry with you." She turned a page.
"I know." He kept his head where it was, pressed against her, eyes half-closed. After a moment, her fingers crept to him, rubbing gently at the soft skin of his snout.
It wasn't full forgiveness. But it was a beginning.
He knew she was angry by the way she moved.
He knew what to look for -- the tight little turns at the corners of her mouth, the quick, precise movements of her hands as she sorted through her magazines in search of a distraction, the way she wouldn't look at him as she moved about the room. He sat with his head down on his forelegs, watching her.
So she was angry. Fine. He was angry too. She'd reprimanded him in front of two others; she'd had him leave like he was a child . . . or worse, a *pet.* He'd been wronged too. Let her be angry. He twisted on the bed, rolling on his side so that he faced away from her. She could apologize. There was nothing wrong with what he'd said to Koushirou and the bug thing; it was true. Eventually she'd come to realize that, and understand that he'd simply said what she could not. He'd seen her; he lived with her. He knew what it meant to her to be living in another country . . . he knew what that support from even a distant point of familiarity would have meant to her in her earliest days.
And really, what did she need Koushirou or Tentomon for, anyway? She *did* have him. She'd always had him. That glow on her face as she'd stood humming, brushing out her hair in front of the mirror, preparing to go . . . even now it twisted at his gut. She didn't need them. He watched the misty end of his hindquarters filter off into empty air, a glower taking over his features.
It was then that he noticed the silence of the room.
He twisted over his shoulder to look at her. She sat reading a much-battered Hindi magazine, the pages crinkled with use. She'd taken it from the airplane; it was the last bit of India that she'd taken with her to Japan, and she'd made use of it. She'd read the articles several times, but she read again as though they were new, a small frown creasing the corners of her mouth. Her legs were drawn up beneath her, her feet bare and peering out from the edge of her sari -- like a child trying to get as much close to herself as she could. Her head rested on her knees.
He'd made her upset. He, who was supposed to look after her, protect her. He wasn't supposed to be making her unhappy . . .
His insides twitched, but this time for a different reason. Rolling completely over, he watched her in full. She took no notice of him.
These people, being around them, trying to meet with them . . . for some reason, it made her happy. As frustrated as he knew she became . . . she wanted this. She wanted to try. She wanted to give it her all. Standing in her way was going to make her unhappy. She was his Mina, his Chosen . . . of all people, she should be happy. These people . . . well, they hadn't done her any harm. Not serious harm, not yet.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . .
Slowly he pushed off the bed, drifting over to her. When she didn't look up, he nosed under her arm, peering up at her from the crook of it, blue eyes wide. She tried not to look, but he felt her give slowly, a shift of muscle that told him she was listening.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm still angry with you." She turned a page.
"I know." He kept his head where it was, pressed against her, eyes half-closed. After a moment, her fingers crept to him, rubbing gently at the soft skin of his snout.
It wasn't full forgiveness. But it was a beginning.