[ It would be easy enough to make comparisons to the man he was in the Aerie, while lying here; to draw the differences out and see himself — the real Booker — in a lesser light. It wouldn't be the first time, and it certainly won't be the last either.
But the entire time he is with Margo, the lines become blurred, and it's like they're able to bring what they had in the Aerie to life, here.
Exactly, yes, like a dream fulfilled.
It doesn't do what they'd set out to accomplish, drinking at Red Wings and then coming here to fuck each other out of their systems. It doesn't feel just physical and they aren't detached from the people that they were in that other reality, not entirely.
But he doesn't know what all of this means either.
He lies beside her, breathing deeply, staring up at the ceiling with its patchy plasterwork covering what had obviously been an invasion of vines, the hairline cracks tracing the pattern of where a stubborn plant had only recently tried to overtake the building, and the rest of New Amsterdam with it.
The natural thing to do would be to lean in, drape an arm across Margo's waist and pull her close. She would laugh or say something about needing a drink, and he would laugh and agree. But he stays where he is instead, tilting his head only to look in her direction — not like someone she might have met a couple of times, but like someone who has known her for years. ]
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But the entire time he is with Margo, the lines become blurred, and it's like they're able to bring what they had in the Aerie to life, here.
Exactly, yes, like a dream fulfilled.
It doesn't do what they'd set out to accomplish, drinking at Red Wings and then coming here to fuck each other out of their systems. It doesn't feel just physical and they aren't detached from the people that they were in that other reality, not entirely.
But he doesn't know what all of this means either.
He lies beside her, breathing deeply, staring up at the ceiling with its patchy plasterwork covering what had obviously been an invasion of vines, the hairline cracks tracing the pattern of where a stubborn plant had only recently tried to overtake the building, and the rest of New Amsterdam with it.
The natural thing to do would be to lean in, drape an arm across Margo's waist and pull her close. She would laugh or say something about needing a drink, and he would laugh and agree. But he stays where he is instead, tilting his head only to look in her direction — not like someone she might have met a couple of times, but like someone who has known her for years. ]