She nodded when he asked if they named him Thomas, and then when he said to put the gun away - she moved it to the back of her pants, and then she shifted, keeping one wary eye on the door, as she moved and got Thomas out of his carrier, the wailing shifting to a shorter, hiccuppy-er cry. He was scared, not hurt, and she held him, pressing her lips to his hair as she thought, for just that moment, of running. Of taking Thomas and running, but she didn't know where she was, she didn't know what would happen. if this was real, or a lie.
"Mama loves you," she whispered to her son - to their son, and she bounced him on her hip, but she couldn't bring herself to come inside, not when she'd spent so long trying to get away from him. To escape this alive, so she could give them a better life, and now- now she found herself in the doorway, not yet making that extra step. "You were in for fourteen months, I had Thomas while you were inside. You almost died when they stabbed you. He was seven months old when you got out." The child she was holding was very, very obviously not seven months old. It was a litany of disconnected phrases, mostly because she had the mental list of what'd happened.
"Abel- back- in the car, he'll-" And she did start to cry, then, but she's looking to him for answers because she doesn't know where else she can find them, scrubbing at her eyes with the side of her hand, hoping that if she ignores it, he will as well. "He'll be alone. He's four, Jax. And he's by himself. I- I have to go back." Even though if she went back? This wouldn't happen. Not ever, not Jax and Abel, alone, not Jax before everything happened. If he really was - he really seemed like he was. "Jax-" She finally took that step into his apartment, and her eyes met his when he turned. "How old are you? Swear- swear to me, you just came home from Belfast." She was different, too. Her hair was short, she was shaped differently -- more curves, more motherly, a bandage on her right hand, and a wedding ring on her left.
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"Mama loves you," she whispered to her son - to their son, and she bounced him on her hip, but she couldn't bring herself to come inside, not when she'd spent so long trying to get away from him. To escape this alive, so she could give them a better life, and now- now she found herself in the doorway, not yet making that extra step. "You were in for fourteen months, I had Thomas while you were inside. You almost died when they stabbed you. He was seven months old when you got out." The child she was holding was very, very obviously not seven months old. It was a litany of disconnected phrases, mostly because she had the mental list of what'd happened.
"Abel- back- in the car, he'll-" And she did start to cry, then, but she's looking to him for answers because she doesn't know where else she can find them, scrubbing at her eyes with the side of her hand, hoping that if she ignores it, he will as well. "He'll be alone. He's four, Jax. And he's by himself. I- I have to go back." Even though if she went back? This wouldn't happen. Not ever, not Jax and Abel, alone, not Jax before everything happened. If he really was - he really seemed like he was. "Jax-" She finally took that step into his apartment, and her eyes met his when he turned. "How old are you? Swear- swear to me, you just came home from Belfast." She was different, too. Her hair was short, she was shaped differently -- more curves, more motherly, a bandage on her right hand, and a wedding ring on her left.