Silver Lining - The Host fanfiction

Chapter 85 The Vulnerable

Nostalgia is a seductive liar.

-George Wildman Ball

Emma

"Don't blame Will too much," Blake says, "he is that way because of things that happened to him. He's not always such a jerk, I promise."

"Don't I feel special now," I mutter.

Blake grins. "I didn't take you for sarcastic."

We're sitting in his sleeping space that's not so far from mine and Burns'. We're both at opposite ends of the mattress.

I'm turning a compass in my hands that I picked up from a makeshift shelve. The needle is slowly moving from left to right. Apparently there is some sort of magnetic field in these tunnels.

Blake's sleeping space is slightly larger than ours. If you try hard enough, you could even call it cozy. He made an effort of giving it a homely appeal.

In the corner he has a makeshift cabinet with planks and stones. The few clothes he owns hang over a bar above it.

A few ornaments, of which the compass was one, adorn the shelves. Some he brought from home, others he found on raids.

There are no pictures, but when I asked him about it, he told me there was no use in keeping reminders of people that are no longer there.

Maybe he's right. I don't know.

Much to Blake's credit, he's not trying to cheer me up. After my earlier break down he brought me here so I could cry my eyes out in privacy and we've been here ever since.
Surprisingly enough, I feel calmer now. Not for the first time I wonder why it could never be this way between us before.

And not for the first time I get the feeling that it might have been my fault. I never allowed myself to lower my guard around him. Though in all fairness, he never gave me much reason to.

"Feeling better?" Blake asks.

I let out a sigh and nod. "Yeah. Thanks."

He leans his head back against the wall and smiles at me. Again, it holds something sad. "You know what this room needs?" he suddenly asks, "decoration."

I blink "Decoration," I echo.

He nods. "Yeah. I was thinking some pictures on the wall. You know any artist?" he grins.

I look down. My sketches are personal.

"Come on," he says, "you've done commissions before. You forget I saw your mural."

"I don't know," I say hesitantly.

He pouts. "I'll pay you."

A laugh escapes me. "With what?"

He nods at my hands. "How about that compass?"

"But it's yours," I protest, "you won it at that contest. The one hosted by my father's Observatory."

"You remember that?" he asks surprised.

The heat rushes to my cheeks, but he doesn't comment on it for once.

"It must have sentimental value," I say, "or you wouldn't have brought it with you."

He nods. "It does."

I wait, but he doesn't elaborate. "Why part with it then?" I ask.

There's a vague smile around his lips. "The reason for its sentimental value is no longer a reason to keep it."