Notes: Short drabble. Romantic if you squint. But mostly not. Low Chaos.
She's not poetic in the least, but she thinks of whales and the turbulent sea when he's around.
She thinks of crashing waves and the smell of salt seeping into everything the water has touched, and amidst all the chaos, an anchor sinking silently down through the water. His eyes are grey like the storm clouds, and it reminds her of the metal on the boats, or perhaps the metal men that prowl the streets. He looks at her with those grey eyes and she feels like she's sinking. No. Floating. No. (Maybe both.)
He looks at her and she thinks of the city cased in steel, of the plague, of the flooded district. She misses her apartment more than she can say. When she was there, everything was normal. Now she isn't. But the Hounds Pit is nice enough. On some days, when the pub was full and everyone was there drinking and laughing and she's pouring the drinks, it almost feels cosy. Almost, but something's off. Something's always off. There's always a simmering tension beneath the cheer and bravado, but no one mentions it. Maybe they just don't notice.
Just like how they don't notice her.
Lydia does sometimes. At least, she likes to think she does. Wallace does perhaps, but only because he needs someone to do the dirty jobs. She didn't mind it, truly. Sometimes she feels like dust though. Just a little. And her heart breaks ever so slightly when she catches Piero kneeling in front of the keyhole and peering into the bathroom. Of course, he didn't notice her standing there. No one ever does.
But he does. He makes her feel real. She thinks it's probably his eyes. It sees her. He sees her. She's not a fading shadow, not just a blurred human shape that passes by everyone else but is never a part of them. She's the battered ship that's swimming into harbour, her very joints aching to stop in safe water, and he is the anchor that steadies her.
She's not poetic in the least, but she thinks of anchors when he's around, and then perhaps she fancies herself safe.