J. Hadley has spent so long in this apartment with the shell of his ear pressed morosely to the door, his eyes glued to the thin slice of greenish fluorescent light that seeps in from the hallway, that he knows precisely how Ada is leaning against the door just by the sound her clothes make against the wood and the way her shadow shifts and then sits against one edge of that thin, uneven slit of light. There's even a tell in how the door settles against is hinges, one side obviously taking a fraction more weight than the other. Very tentatively, J. Hadley draws himself up onto his knees and presses his hand against the door to test her weight against it from the other side. It feels dangerous even though he knows it isn't; the door would protect her, a solid in and half of wood to keep Ada and all of her lovely, functioning insides away from him and the rot he know sprung from his skin.
(He hadn't meant to make Circe angry, it had been an honest mistake, he hadn't been going anywhere really—) ]
I. I heard. [ It takes a moment to get the word out. Sometimes they never come at all. ] The countdown on the r-radio. And the suh— And the suh-singing. [ He'd smiled then, even had began to hum along in wavering tones through his nose. ]
[ Carefully he lifts one finger then the next, then the next, from the surface of the wood, peeling his hand from it with a deliberateness that comes only with full-blown reluctance. Moths fly, don't they? It was only a matter of time before Ada flittered off and so J. Hadley feels less the urge to chase her off. She'd manage it on her own. ] I ate s-some. Nothing buh-big, but.
[ It goes quiet on J. Hadley's side of the door, quiet to the point where it seems as though he's suddenly disappeared from behind it. ] —was it n-nice, Ada? The party?
no subject
(He doesn't say it.)
J. Hadley has spent so long in this apartment with the shell of his ear pressed morosely to the door, his eyes glued to the thin slice of greenish fluorescent light that seeps in from the hallway, that he knows precisely how Ada is leaning against the door just by the sound her clothes make against the wood and the way her shadow shifts and then sits against one edge of that thin, uneven slit of light. There's even a tell in how the door settles against is hinges, one side obviously taking a fraction more weight than the other. Very tentatively, J. Hadley draws himself up onto his knees and presses his hand against the door to test her weight against it from the other side. It feels dangerous even though he knows it isn't; the door would protect her, a solid in and half of wood to keep Ada and all of her lovely, functioning insides away from him and the rot he know sprung from his skin.
(He hadn't meant to make Circe angry, it had been an honest mistake, he hadn't been going anywhere really—) ]
I. I heard. [ It takes a moment to get the word out. Sometimes they never come at all. ] The countdown on the r-radio. And the suh— And the suh-singing. [ He'd smiled then, even had began to hum along in wavering tones through his nose. ]
[ Carefully he lifts one finger then the next, then the next, from the surface of the wood, peeling his hand from it with a deliberateness that comes only with full-blown reluctance. Moths fly, don't they? It was only a matter of time before Ada flittered off and so J. Hadley feels less the urge to chase her off. She'd manage it on her own. ] I ate s-some. Nothing buh-big, but.
[ It goes quiet on J. Hadley's side of the door, quiet to the point where it seems as though he's suddenly disappeared from behind it. ] —was it n-nice, Ada? The party?