There’s a worn notebook in her hands, the edges singed black, and her thumb strokes over the spine with a certain sort of… reverence. The grave she stands in front of is unmarked except for a false name and a date, but it doesn’t matter. She knows who it is.
She always knows. That’s why she keeps the list.
"Because I needed to make a pit-stop."
For the briefest of moments, her expression is probably the most honest he’s ever seen it. There’s sadness, guilt, confusion, and anger in equal measure, a tempest of self-blame for not seeing it sooner, for not realizing, for not seeing how deep the corruption ran in the organization she once considered home.
The only thing worse than watching it burn down is not knowing who the hell to mourn after the fire.
And then, the moment has passed, and the mask of neutral determination is back in place.
He doesn't recognise the name, and he's got no idea what's in the notebook she's holding in her hands with a certain heavy veneration, but he knows enough to guess what this is about, in he broadest sense.
He waits, silent. At first he watches her face -- but then there's a flicker of vulnerability, and Sam can't help but feel like he's intruding on something that he was never meant to see. Something that he hasn't earned. So he stands, eyes downcast, parade rest (though he doesn't realise it) until the moment is over.
He's stood in front of enough graves -- some empty -- to guess that she doesn't need to talk about whoever's supposedly under that headstone, empty casket or no.
"We got time for a few more stops. Y'know, if you
need 'em."
janainaart
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
germansingergirl
