(Beverly lingers in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, watching Lucretia, soaking in the sights and sounds of her: the precise, confident way she flicks her wrist to perform her small miracle of magic, the crinkle of lines around her eyes (an echo of Beverly's own, now), and the deep, comforting calm of her voice. These are all the little things she'd forgotten, the memories blurred by time. She doesn't want to forget again.
Finally, she comes over to sit, curling one leg underneath herself.)
It's hard to know where to start.
(With the war? With the Borg? With Ronin, with Data? There's just so much that has happened.)
no subject
Finally, she comes over to sit, curling one leg underneath herself.)
It's hard to know where to start.
(With the war? With the Borg? With Ronin, with Data? There's just so much that has happened.)