[ Gideon stops when Faith stops, and follows when she keeps moving. What else can Gideon do? The Sixth might be better at this kind of honesty, but it's still new to Gideon. The Ninth is a house filled with secrets, and right now, Gideon acutely understands why. ]
Yeah. It's, uh. John. His name.
[ Another secret, another betrayal. He's God. He's just some guy. He's too much for Gideon to comprehend, sometimes, and so she doesn't.
Worse than prison is a bleak assessment, and Gideon winces, unsure of what to say. She doesn't say anything, for a moment. For once, she's thinking.
Gideon thinks about training with Paul at dawn, about eating his bad-but-getting-better food, about doing her part to keep his hair as messy as possible. She thinks about Kaworu, floating off the roof in increasingly stupider ways, about the lizard they are raising together, about puns and piggyback rides.
She thinks about Harrow, because Gideon is always thinking about Harrow, about the fragile peace that the two of them share, about the little divot above her lip, about how Gideon gets to see her first thing when she wakes up and last thing before she goes to sleep. About the question she wants to ask, so, so badly, and the fear that's settled deep in her heart over the answer being no.
And then there's God, and he's the odd one out, the only person Gideon does her best not to think about. Kaworu and Paul and even Harrow will love him, will call him Teacher, and she won't, and maybe that's the only thing that stands between their house and kindly. ]
Yeah. [ Gideon breathes, at last ] Yeah, I think -- I think it could be.
[ she offers Faith something that would be a smile, if it weren't so fucking bitter. ]
Except that I'm the one who keeps fucking it up, you know?
no subject
Yeah. It's, uh. John. His name.
[ Another secret, another betrayal. He's God. He's just some guy. He's too much for Gideon to comprehend, sometimes, and so she doesn't.
Worse than prison is a bleak assessment, and Gideon winces, unsure of what to say. She doesn't say anything, for a moment. For once, she's thinking.
Gideon thinks about training with Paul at dawn, about eating his bad-but-getting-better food, about doing her part to keep his hair as messy as possible. She thinks about Kaworu, floating off the roof in increasingly stupider ways, about the lizard they are raising together, about puns and piggyback rides.
She thinks about Harrow, because Gideon is always thinking about Harrow, about the fragile peace that the two of them share, about the little divot above her lip, about how Gideon gets to see her first thing when she wakes up and last thing before she goes to sleep. About the question she wants to ask, so, so badly, and the fear that's settled deep in her heart over the answer being no.
And then there's God, and he's the odd one out, the only person Gideon does her best not to think about. Kaworu and Paul and even Harrow will love him, will call him Teacher, and she won't, and maybe that's the only thing that stands between their house and kindly. ]
Yeah. [ Gideon breathes, at last ] Yeah, I think -- I think it could be.
[ she offers Faith something that would be a smile, if it weren't so fucking bitter. ]
Except that I'm the one who keeps fucking it up, you know?