A CAT NAMED WAY-OUT WILLIE.

" no i am not okay. " and it is not meant to cause pity, her green eyes meeting his before she swallows hard and does not look at him trying and failing to subdue her emotions and she nods her head always grateful for the support but not exactly wanting to open up. she never wanted to open up.

" but i will be... " she murmurs believing that to be true in all the trials and shit that was yet to come and her hand reaches for his moving to curls her fingers into his. " is that enough for you? "

tommy knows the answer, he dreads the answer, and it's exactly what is given to him. he softly inhales an uneasy breath through his teeth before scooting closer to beverly, his hand sliding to meet hers. ROUGH PALMS squeeze her fingers and hand, tracing symbols against her skin that he hopes will give him some inspiration as what to say.

tommy never knows what to say, and yet beverly's occasionally comforted by the shit that comes outta his mouth. or he hopes so, anyway.

 the  lightest  of  laughs  flows  from  her  lips.  ❝  oh,  i  wouldn't.  ❞  eyebrows  raise  as  if  she's  seen  something  she  wishes  she  hasn't  in  relation  to  tea  (  which  may  or  may  not  be  true  ).  ❝  i  don't  think  elizabeth  would  appreciate  lukewarm  or  burnt  tea.  i've  burnt  water  before.  it's  a  pity  anthony  ended  up  with  a  wife  who  can  barely  boil  water.  don't  get  your  hopes  up.  ❞

 johanna  flings  open  a  cabinet  door  to  the  kettle,  placed  on  the  lowest  shelf  to  give  easy  access  to  her.  she's  only  had  to  remind  anthony  that  she's  no  where  near  as  tall  as  him  five  times  before  he  finally  started  remembering  to  put  it  on  the  lowest  shelf.  ❝  there  isn't  a  drop  of  alcohol  in  our  household.  ❞  she  places  the  kettle  on  the  stove,  looking  back  at  tommy  as  she  closes  the  cupboard.  ❝  i'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  trade  it  in  for  charred  tea.  ❞

 it's  as  if  she's  a  dancer  whose  preformed  a  ballet  a  hundred  times  as  she  gathers  the  rest  of  the  materials  and  heats  the  stove.  not  that  dancing  should  be  a  metaphor  ever  associated  with  her  awkward  footing.  it's  only  when  she  looks  over  her  shoulders  that  she  realizes  how  tommy  is  simply  standing  there.  

 ❝  you  can  take  a  seat  at  the  table.  ❞  johanna  eyes  where  his  hands  are.  like  he's  a  child  at  school  who  doesn't  know  what  else  to  do  with  his  hands.  she  pulls  out  a  chair  for  herself,  though  doesn't  sit.  ❝  i  suppose.  ❞  she  shrugs.  ❝  i've  never  heard  anthony  or  any  of  his  sailor  friends  describe  it  that  way.  it  makes  it  sound  what  they  do  much  more  interesting  than  it  is.  ❞  though,  johanna  can't  help  being  jealous  of  him  sometimes.  anthony  gets  to  see  the  world.  

tommy stands like a CHURCH BOY, palms clasped at his front, as he admires another room in the cozy abode. johanna is a beacon of mercy and finally (though this is no fault of hers) an invitation to the small table. tommy exhales a breath that he absolutely knew he was holding on to. this open palmed pose remains as he seats himself, but at least he can relax his arms on the table. poor manners, maybe, but this never crosses his mind.

"you're the only house i know that don't keep any booze." granted, this says plenty about tommy's circle of company. he near dares to ask if there's a cause; perhaps tommy is mixing up his stereotypes, but he SWEARS that sailors are known for their drinking.

then again, he thought he was a real brainiac for pulling voyage outta his ass, so what the hell does he know?