He leans forward, both elbows on the table, to hand the cigarette over to Lark. He's feeling out what Lark won't and will let himself have, and apparently cigarettes are part of the incomplete indulgences.
"I haven't." But Tommy's sexual history (scarce, since the war; 1 person, other than Grace, for simple physical satisfaction) isn't the point of discussion here.
"Are you afraid of what would happen if you slept with him?"
"I haven't been with anyone since Lisbeth. I haven't even wanted to be." Lark says, finally going still. "Whenever I've started to feel something, it's been- uncomfortable. Look, if I actually can be with someone, it means-"
He hesitates, shakes his head. "It means she's gone, Tommy. It means there's no center to a pack here, it means there's no pack-"
The growing distress in Lark's voice makes Tommy frown, as does the fact that he's suddenly still-- and when he starts talking about pack, he stands up, makes his way over to him and puts a hand to the side of his head.
"Hey-- hey. Calm down, eh? It'll be alright." They can talk about how, later, but he needs him calm, first- which is why his voice is low, authoritative, clear.
This is as close to rattled as Lark gets; not panic, but he's certainly not corralling his thoughts, and all his energy stops.
Lark looks at Tommy, who may not understand what the status of coyote is to Lark's kind, but who understands at least what it's like to need a group for survival. Soldiers or siblings, Tommy's needed one or the other as much as Lark has.
"I've been- going at this all the wrong way," he says softly, as if by voicing his mistakes he can purge them and start over. "I never should have let myself think she'd be coming back. I should have been focusing on rebuilding."
"There's time yet, Lark," he says. "No one can blame you for waiting for her."
No one, perhaps, will understand this better than Tommy. What he doesn't know for a fact yet, but what he feels, somewhere inside of him, is that he'll never truly let go of Grace- that he'll always hold out for her, will compare everyone else to her. That he won't be able to move on.
He understands. But it's easier to give advice than it is to follow it.
There will never be another Lisbeth. Lark closes his eyes, buries his face in his hands, and feels his mind zigzag while he talks himself in circles.
"The thing is I don't think she'd even care if I just- if she knew about Alec. But I can't tell. She was always so free--I'm sure she had, or would have had, other people besides me." Lark had been jealous when he'd noticed those she had singled out, for whatever reason. It had been a masochistic high.
"But if she's gone, the pack-" She had never been the leader or the center. Lark had turned someone else for that. But Lark had an eye to the future, and Lisbeth would have been the most ideal (maybe because he was bonded to her, centered on her).
"I need a pack." He says it the way he'd admit, I need a new kidney. "I could wait on her forever, but if the Admiral doesn't take her soul, what good is that? The isolation will catch up."
This is moving into dangerous territory- where it's no longer just about being a friend or a confidant to Lark, but it's also about Tommy's job as a warden, as a warden to Nux. He knows for a fact that Lark would turn him in a second if Nux gave his permission, and that's not what the boy needs.
He tries not to show it. Tries to stay calm. And he succeeds, mostly, and he moves close enough to rest a warm, heavy hand on the back of Lark's head. Centering, calming, he hopes.
"You're not isolated, Lark. You haven't been, even if this entire time Lisbeth hasn't been here with you."
His hand reaches up, resting over Tommy's, because despite this normally being a dominating gesture to a wolf, Lark knows what the intent behind it is here.
He doesn't usually consider himself part wolf, part man--he's a lycanthrope. He is whole in every alien way. But there is a part of him that feels carved out and left to dry, that knows how far his relationships stretch and how alone he is at the far end of them.
And then there is a part of him that is just happy, glad to have Tommy, and Nux, Chris, and Furiosa. Alec. They aren't a pack, they can't fix what he needs fixed. But he's glad anyway.
"You're a better friend than I thought you'd be," he says, which is true, even if he's teasing gently.
"You're less of an arse than I thought you'd be," he replies, glib but fond. He ruffles his hair slightly, pulling playfully on the short hairs in his neck. He thinks of Freddie, and how that friendship had ended up, and he has to shake his head to get the thought out of it. No sense lingering on that, right now- he'd gotten Freddie free, he knows he had. Just a matter of seeing him, now.
"Does Alec know? About the woman?" Because he might be sympathetic.
Lark is able to invoke the precise mood of a dog having his ears rubbed, sometimes. Like now. He leans toward Tommy ever so slightly, giving more of himself in that gesture than he's given anyone other than Bonnie in years.
"No. I'll tell him, it's just...we have a lot of- tension between us. A lot of unspoken understandings that it would be a bad idea to share too much. You know?"
"If you share your bed with someone, regardless of how much it means to either of you, you are giving them a degree of power over you." But yes: he knows. He smiles in fond amusement at Lark's expression.
"I was going to try to argue with you," Lark admits, "Because I know you're right. When I was teaching Furiosa how to swim, months ago, we had this session where I kept trying to relax and let her be in control."
Needless to say, he never got there. He always kept the lead, even with her, even in a controlled situation that he had personally devised.
"Not everything," he says, fingers slipping from Lark's hair finally. "You can decide not to give anything. But you will, whether you want it or not. Accept that or cut it off, now. Stop the game."
Lark sits up a little and resents that his first thought is simply that he likes Alec--he likes him enough to ignore that the risks outweigh the gains. He likes him enough that, if it came down to some sort of fight to the death and Lark won, he'd feel a little bad even if he wouldn't hesitate.
"Don't say 'I told you so' in six months," is his only request of Tommy.
"I'll preserve your dignity," he says, soft smile playing around his mouth, eyes twinkling a little.
To be honest, he thinks it'll be a mistake. These are not men who will make each other better, but it's not Tommy's life, and he's not their warden or their babysitter. They'll see what happens.
"I know." That Tommy will, at least in public. And that Tommy has doubts. Lark does, too.
"The worst that happens is no worse than what can and does happen in most situations like this." Meaning, "If we're both stuck here a hundred years, he can't get hold of me as deeply as...she did."
"Then you'll be alright." His voice is soft, and Lark knows him well enough to understand what he's thinking of- Grace, and how he can't imagine anyone ever moving into his life as quickly and as deeply as she had.
He nods. Sometimes, he likes to stoke the old addiction, so he can push it down again. It's one way to pass the time around here, even if it's something he would never have let himself do at home.
He knows this is true, but has always found it difficult to put into words. So he smokes for a quiet minute, thinking, and then replies.
"She taught me to consider others, to ask for help, to not be blind when pursuing a goal. And she-" he clenches his jaw, now, and mutters the next part before smoking: "She made me feel as if there were a future in which I could somehow be happy and satisfied."
Lark nods, almost to himself, and watches smoke twirl up from the end of his cigarette.
"That's the worst part, for me. I can reach the goals I have for myself. They'll be enough for most of me. But after her- nothing fills that. Nothing will ever fill that. I've never doubted where I'm going, but I wonder now what the hell I'm going to do when I get there if she isn't with me."
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"He wasn't comfortable. I don't know if he was angry--I don't know how to read him on a good day."
Which is vexing and masochistically enticing.
"The problem isn't that he knows what I told him, or that he will or won't sleep with me. Have you been with anyone since Grace?"
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"I haven't." But Tommy's sexual history (scarce, since the war; 1 person, other than Grace, for simple physical satisfaction) isn't the point of discussion here.
"Are you afraid of what would happen if you slept with him?"
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He hesitates, shakes his head. "It means she's gone, Tommy. It means there's no center to a pack here, it means there's no pack-"
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"Hey-- hey. Calm down, eh? It'll be alright." They can talk about how, later, but he needs him calm, first- which is why his voice is low, authoritative, clear.
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Lark looks at Tommy, who may not understand what the status of coyote is to Lark's kind, but who understands at least what it's like to need a group for survival. Soldiers or siblings, Tommy's needed one or the other as much as Lark has.
"I've been- going at this all the wrong way," he says softly, as if by voicing his mistakes he can purge them and start over. "I never should have let myself think she'd be coming back. I should have been focusing on rebuilding."
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No one, perhaps, will understand this better than Tommy. What he doesn't know for a fact yet, but what he feels, somewhere inside of him, is that he'll never truly let go of Grace- that he'll always hold out for her, will compare everyone else to her. That he won't be able to move on.
He understands. But it's easier to give advice than it is to follow it.
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"The thing is I don't think she'd even care if I just- if she knew about Alec. But I can't tell. She was always so free--I'm sure she had, or would have had, other people besides me." Lark had been jealous when he'd noticed those she had singled out, for whatever reason. It had been a masochistic high.
"But if she's gone, the pack-" She had never been the leader or the center. Lark had turned someone else for that. But Lark had an eye to the future, and Lisbeth would have been the most ideal (maybe because he was bonded to her, centered on her).
"I need a pack." He says it the way he'd admit, I need a new kidney. "I could wait on her forever, but if the Admiral doesn't take her soul, what good is that? The isolation will catch up."
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He tries not to show it. Tries to stay calm. And he succeeds, mostly, and he moves close enough to rest a warm, heavy hand on the back of Lark's head. Centering, calming, he hopes.
"You're not isolated, Lark. You haven't been, even if this entire time Lisbeth hasn't been here with you."
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He doesn't usually consider himself part wolf, part man--he's a lycanthrope. He is whole in every alien way. But there is a part of him that feels carved out and left to dry, that knows how far his relationships stretch and how alone he is at the far end of them.
And then there is a part of him that is just happy, glad to have Tommy, and Nux, Chris, and Furiosa. Alec. They aren't a pack, they can't fix what he needs fixed. But he's glad anyway.
"You're a better friend than I thought you'd be," he says, which is true, even if he's teasing gently.
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"Does Alec know? About the woman?" Because he might be sympathetic.
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"No. I'll tell him, it's just...we have a lot of- tension between us. A lot of unspoken understandings that it would be a bad idea to share too much. You know?"
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Needless to say, he never got there. He always kept the lead, even with her, even in a controlled situation that he had personally devised.
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"Don't say 'I told you so' in six months," is his only request of Tommy.
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To be honest, he thinks it'll be a mistake. These are not men who will make each other better, but it's not Tommy's life, and he's not their warden or their babysitter. They'll see what happens.
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"The worst that happens is no worse than what can and does happen in most situations like this." Meaning, "If we're both stuck here a hundred years, he can't get hold of me as deeply as...she did."
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"How did we end up like this?" Ruined for other people. Ruined at all by someone else, when he's certain they both knew better all along.
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"We thought we couldn't be loved, and then we were." It's the only explanation he has, really.
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"Then does it matter if we deserve that love?"
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"For us, individually, yes." He shakes the match to extinguish it, then leans his elbow on the table.
"Because that is how we became like this."
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He takes a short but thoughtful drag off of his. "How?"
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"She taught me to consider others, to ask for help, to not be blind when pursuing a goal. And she-" he clenches his jaw, now, and mutters the next part before smoking: "She made me feel as if there were a future in which I could somehow be happy and satisfied."
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"That's the worst part, for me. I can reach the goals I have for myself. They'll be enough for most of me. But after her- nothing fills that. Nothing will ever fill that. I've never doubted where I'm going, but I wonder now what the hell I'm going to do when I get there if she isn't with me."
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