For George. (debut)

[inch_high_pi]

GeorgeChrist, she could just kill him with her bare hands. Left on the sidewalk while he went traipsing off after Mitchell, again. Unsurprising, at this point. The anger… it was better than feeling guilty for what she’d put into motion. It had to be done, one way or another. It had to be, because she couldn’t stomach another bloody second sitting

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[provenhumanity]

In his time on the island, George had been exposed to a host of strange and unexpected things. Granted, his life back home hadn't been without its weird and unexpected moments-- in fact, for a while, it'd been entirely made up of them, really-- but the island was another monster. At any moment, he could find himself in some sort of shared dream, or having to deal with the dead body of someone he'd cared about or felt responsible for in some way

[inch_high_pi]

Her first instinct was to tell him to run. Herrick was on the loose and literally on the rampage, keen to cause as much torment as possible, and there was no doubt George was on the very top of his list.

But slowly, the simple wrongness began to settle around her. The jungle. The warm, earthy scent of dirt and fresh leaves. The undeniable fact that she'd been stabbed, fatally, only moments ago. And most importantly, the subtle differences in George. His shirt. That look on his face, both relatively unsurprising and completely inappropriate. Horrified, but not simply at the blood. At her.

"From the way Annie went on about it, I expected more doors," she said, cocking her head and wrinkling her nose, the casual acceptance in her voice offset by the tears staining her face. "It's a bit of a disappointment, really."

[provenhumanity]

There was no reasonable place to start speaking, no logical beginning to a conversation with someone he'd become convinced he'd likely never see again. It's odd to think, but it's been so long now that he'd nearly forgotten what she looked like. Not the general look of her, but the smaller bits, like the exact shade of her hair and the expression on her face.

Even after that, after the recognition that came with everything that was so very Nina about her, if George had still doubted, her comment about Annie confirmed it. She wasn't a trick or merely someone with Nina's face at all.

"Christ, Nina, you're-- you're-- you're not... how are you here? How-- how long have you been here?" George stammered, and through some miracle, his tone, while very quickly verging on frantic, managed to somehow remain even as well.

"Whose blood is that?"

[inch_high_pi]

"Mine, George. It's mine. Generally, that's what happens when one is literally stabbed in the back."

Herrick had provided her with all sorts of lovely new context to that phrase.

Groping distractedly where the wound should have been, she said, "'s not bleeding anymore." Then, peering up at his face, still slumped there on her knees in the dirt, she frowned, wiping the back of one hand across her cheek and dragging in a wet sniff. "Where, here? Right here? No bloody clue. I was in the kitchen, not two minutes ago, now here I am." She sighed. "Stop looking at me like that, George. You're starting to scare me."