[ he gives her a minute - his face isn’t unknown and Stephen does look so much like his father. Not that it’s not somewhat strange, what he imagines most parents see when they meet their children’s friends for the first time.]
[ he offers his hand to her ]
Hello Cara, my name’s Roger.
—- Yeah. Yeah, I … know who you are.
[ hard not to know, really. between john and stephen, he’s been an obsession for the longest time, his return vital to what they believed would be the salvation and preservation of their species.
but how was he —- ? ]
I’ve heard a lot about you, admittedly.
[ she doesn’t move, refusing the handshake —- contact, skin against skin, is an easy pass into another’s mind, and despite what she’s heard said of this man, cara’s learned not to be overly trusting. ]
Anonymous asked: "Wow--looking good in a leather jacket Cara. Hard to believe the little girl I knew's now this kickass fighter." - nelly
❝Nelly —- ?❞
Funny how one name can lodge itself in the back of the throat, one voice can cause the chest to tighten to borderline bursting. Brows furrow, breaths shallow and short as her jaw clenches and unclenches, words dry and tasteless in her mouth.
But she’s dead.
Her eyes press closed, unable to stare what she deems to be a specter in the eyes. How? —- the question sits heavy on her tongue, but she can’t bring herself to spit out the solitary word, lips pursed and locked. It strikes her as a waste of breath, a waste of time, a waste of however short an opportunity to speak to the ghosts of her past, stirring up the dust on old graves.
❝ —- Thanks.❞
Head ducking sheepishly, Cara almost smiles, the expression twitching timidly.
❝Guess I was lucky to have someone with a style worth taking after.❞
Anonymous asked: *will find all of her clothes soaked in pickle juice*
[ she doesn’t know which is more aggravating —- the fact her clothes are soaked and reek, or that she doesn’t know who to peg the blame and her wrath upon. ]
