[ she eventually learns to accept that they were too young, too naive in the face of grief, too inexperienced in the art of being adults because the loss of innocence is not measured by two bodies coming together under cover of dark, but when two tightly clasped hands are pulled in two different directions.
it's been nearly six years since knifehead and naomi sokolov is a face in the crowd of reporters and journalists welcoming raleigh becket home. she has a beanie keeping her head warm as the last leg of winter clings stubbornly to the air, a thick crowd of fellow americans gathering beyond the barricaded line.
the kaiju are gone. the breach is closed and of all the rangers who had stayed with the ppdc to see challenger deep through, only three remain: marshal hercules hansen, australia's pride. the iconic survivor of onibaba and tokyo's beloved daughter, mako mori. and of course, america's golden boy.
he both looks the same and so very different when he steps up on the stage, hands clearly itching to hide themselves in his coat. naomi doesn't miss the look that crosses raleigh's features when he and mako share a glance and she ducks her head and fiddles with the settings of her phone, quickly messaging her photographer and friend get as many shots as you can. we'll need it.
she hadn't expected the twist in her gut and she repeats to herself that what they'd had nearly six years ago was a lifetime away. but telling herself that doesn't make it easy. not when there's a photograph of her and raleigh tucked in a secret compartment of her wallet because it wasn't that they'd fought -- he'd just needed to leave, to deal with his grief and she hadn't been allowed to follow.
so she breathes and settles the mask of professionalism over her face and starts taking notes as her phone records the proceedings for her. ]
i'm sorry?????
[ she eventually learns to accept that they were too young, too naive in the face of grief, too inexperienced in the art of being adults because the loss of innocence is not measured by two bodies coming together under cover of dark, but when two tightly clasped hands are pulled in two different directions.
it's been nearly six years since knifehead and naomi sokolov is a face in the crowd of reporters and journalists welcoming raleigh becket home. she has a beanie keeping her head warm as the last leg of winter clings stubbornly to the air, a thick crowd of fellow americans gathering beyond the barricaded line.
the kaiju are gone. the breach is closed and of all the rangers who had stayed with the ppdc to see challenger deep through, only three remain: marshal hercules hansen, australia's pride. the iconic survivor of onibaba and tokyo's beloved daughter, mako mori. and of course, america's golden boy.
he both looks the same and so very different when he steps up on the stage, hands clearly itching to hide themselves in his coat. naomi doesn't miss the look that crosses raleigh's features when he and mako share a glance and she ducks her head and fiddles with the settings of her phone, quickly messaging her photographer and friend get as many shots as you can. we'll need it.
she hadn't expected the twist in her gut and she repeats to herself that what they'd had nearly six years ago was a lifetime away. but telling herself that doesn't make it easy. not when there's a photograph of her and raleigh tucked in a secret compartment of her wallet because it wasn't that they'd fought -- he'd just needed to leave, to deal with his grief and she hadn't been allowed to follow.
so she breathes and settles the mask of professionalism over her face and starts taking notes as her phone records the proceedings for her. ]