[fic] strawberries; lost; alex/richard; pg13
strawberries, pg13
lost; alex/richard; 553
au; for bittersweet325 who requested richard and the modern world
Richard is surprised at how quickly Alex adapts to life in this new world, their new home. She fiddles with her phone, a strand of hair stuck at the corner of her mouth.
"Ha," she lets out a laugh. She's got something figured, a new piece of data that means nothing, except perhaps this momentary satisfaction.
Richard looks up from his book, studies the movement of her ankle, her bare heel propped up on the coffee table, her toes practically curling in excitement. Each day she teaches herself things that Richard has no desire to ever learn, things that will someday, for him, become obsolete.
It's the blessing of a young mind, he knows. Alex would be just as happy in a canvas tent, or under the stars, as he would be -- with the simple comfort of a metal cup filled with rain water, a soft place to lay her head, the sun on her shoulders, her feet bare. But unlike Richard, Alex doesn't have a hundred years of knowledge, guilt, pain, and bitterness to fill her memories. She doesn't have a fraction of it. She hasn't seen the world change, technologies come and go, and societies fall. And that, he knows, is where they are different.
Is there a limit to what the human mind can comprehend? Is there an end to what you can learn? What is the state of a mind stuffed full? Richard fears he will never learn these answers. That the things he knows, the things he feels, will never reach their limit.
Even now, each night he learns a new sound she can make, his hand at her waist, his thumb ghosting over her breast, his teeth at her shoulder. Alex squeezes him between her thighs, lets out the strangled cry of his name. Richard closes his eyes tight, files the sound away in his mind, and remembers his rhythm so he can someday get her to make it again.
Later, Alex rests, curled beside him.
"What's it like to live forever?" she asks him.
Richard pauses a moment. "Lonely," he tells her. "It's lonely, Alex."
"That's not what you used to say," she says, no longer shy about eavesdropping on conversations she had no place listening to as a young child. "You used to tell Ben it felt powerful. That it was a gift."
"Not anymore," he says. "It's no gift."
"What changed?" she asks, sliding up to look him in the eye.
Richard only kisses her, his hand sliding up her naked back, doesn't utter the unspoken: you.
-
Despite her zest for this new life, at the end of the day, Alex is still a loner, like him. They don't make friends. They don't make small talk. Some days they barely even talk to each other. They shop for groceries and go their separate ways: her down one aisle, him down another.
A while later, Richard feels a vibration in his pocket, pulls out his phone.
"Strawberries?"
A message from Alex.
He smiles, resists the urge to leave the bread aisle, find her, and tell her the answer in person. He promised he'd learn. For her.
It's not as though she has anyone else to send messages to after all.
He flips open his phone, presses the buttons one at a time.
"Lots."
-fin
lost; alex/richard; 553
au; for bittersweet325 who requested richard and the modern world
Richard is surprised at how quickly Alex adapts to life in this new world, their new home. She fiddles with her phone, a strand of hair stuck at the corner of her mouth.
"Ha," she lets out a laugh. She's got something figured, a new piece of data that means nothing, except perhaps this momentary satisfaction.
Richard looks up from his book, studies the movement of her ankle, her bare heel propped up on the coffee table, her toes practically curling in excitement. Each day she teaches herself things that Richard has no desire to ever learn, things that will someday, for him, become obsolete.
It's the blessing of a young mind, he knows. Alex would be just as happy in a canvas tent, or under the stars, as he would be -- with the simple comfort of a metal cup filled with rain water, a soft place to lay her head, the sun on her shoulders, her feet bare. But unlike Richard, Alex doesn't have a hundred years of knowledge, guilt, pain, and bitterness to fill her memories. She doesn't have a fraction of it. She hasn't seen the world change, technologies come and go, and societies fall. And that, he knows, is where they are different.
Is there a limit to what the human mind can comprehend? Is there an end to what you can learn? What is the state of a mind stuffed full? Richard fears he will never learn these answers. That the things he knows, the things he feels, will never reach their limit.
Even now, each night he learns a new sound she can make, his hand at her waist, his thumb ghosting over her breast, his teeth at her shoulder. Alex squeezes him between her thighs, lets out the strangled cry of his name. Richard closes his eyes tight, files the sound away in his mind, and remembers his rhythm so he can someday get her to make it again.
Later, Alex rests, curled beside him.
"What's it like to live forever?" she asks him.
Richard pauses a moment. "Lonely," he tells her. "It's lonely, Alex."
"That's not what you used to say," she says, no longer shy about eavesdropping on conversations she had no place listening to as a young child. "You used to tell Ben it felt powerful. That it was a gift."
"Not anymore," he says. "It's no gift."
"What changed?" she asks, sliding up to look him in the eye.
Richard only kisses her, his hand sliding up her naked back, doesn't utter the unspoken: you.
-
Despite her zest for this new life, at the end of the day, Alex is still a loner, like him. They don't make friends. They don't make small talk. Some days they barely even talk to each other. They shop for groceries and go their separate ways: her down one aisle, him down another.
A while later, Richard feels a vibration in his pocket, pulls out his phone.
"Strawberries?"
A message from Alex.
He smiles, resists the urge to leave the bread aisle, find her, and tell her the answer in person. He promised he'd learn. For her.
It's not as though she has anyone else to send messages to after all.
He flips open his phone, presses the buttons one at a time.
"Lots."
-fin