happiness, crysta and hanson
"What's your happy place, Hanson?"
"What do you mean by that?" Came the typical grumpy reply as the zombie watched Crysta swing her legs off the Normandy pier. She smiled to herself and flicked her wings in a shrug, watching the rainbowfish swim below her in the summery waters, their scales winking vibrantly in the setting sun.
"I mean like. What makes you happy, handsome Hanson?" Big green eyes peered back at him and the big undead froze, his brow furrowing still further than before. Crysta watched his face for a moment before looking back over the horizon with a nonchalant air, fingers drumming on boards etched with initials, confessions of love, promises, and poetry.
"I'll start you off. My happy place is the forest. Or the kitchen with my dads. It's with you. It's with Putter! It's with Mossy and Jackie, it's with Uriel and all my friends, it's..." she trailed off, her eyes far away. Her fingers drew life back into the wood under her hands, the knots and dried, salted surfaces smoothing and sprouting tiny green tendrils between the cracks. "It's wherever there is love."
"...Sounds sappy," Hanson grunted, but slowly stooped to sit beside Crysta, folding his hands in his lap. His legs swung out longer over the edge of the pier, and he peered warily down into the water. The fish swimming below scattered in lieu of his enormous shadow. Hanson picked at a nail until Crysta took one of his hands, knitting her fingers through his with a warm squeeze, her eyes still fixed on the horizon.
"It is," Crysta replied simply.
"But sappy rhymes with happy for a reason, y'know."
