[ ( It's not the first time she's been targeted by the things he tried to protect her from. )
Her anger, as always, is a quick, flaring thing. Easily told in the tell-tale signs of a tensed jaw and harsher eyes, a mask of cold indifference settling on her face. Meeting fire with fire, every step of the way ( she's stressed, exhausted, and frustrated, all at once. Her track record of thinking through things alone still something she refuses to apologize for ).
At least the shock is gone. The confusion and the guilt being replaced with this, as tension rises in the room.
I wasn't going to leave him there. She couldn't. She's mourned before, watched someone's death play out in front of her. No one deserves that.
The place was cleared out. I wouldn't have gone back if it was still dangerous. ]
[Doesn't he know it. Only really stings the worse, for it.
He can see her hackles picking up, feel it in the tense hum of argument ready to happen in the air. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't take advantage of the fact that she has no choice but to let him talk over her. It's been a long day, a long week, or more, and they're all at the end of their collective ropes in one way or another, and he really doesn't want to make it longer. But—he digs his heels in. Because it all sounds sensible enough, when she spells it out that way—until she claims that the place was cleared out. Safe. Because there remains the little problem of the jacket still clutched stubbornly and symbolically around her shoulders to keep him from knowing what's underneath.
So he doesn't raise his voice, but it comes away sharpish despite himself. It's been a long day—and it isn't as over as she'd like it to be.]
[ It's a lie by omission, technically — she wouldn't have gone back if the place was still swarming with extremists and assholes, she's not that suicidal. She just hadn't expected things to still linger, not before it was too late. And when it was too late, well —
By that point, she couldn't turn back.
She holds his gaze — expression barely flickering when he holds his ground, because some part of her knows that he couldn't step down ( just like how she can't, either ). Not here, not over this.
So, once more ( with feeling ): I'm fine now. Don't expect me to apologize for going. ]
[They are very different people in a lot of ways. And in a lot of ways it works to their favor. But then—]
I'm not asking you to apologize.
[Don't put words in his mouth, Red. Here, the frustration bleeds through audibly. Hands fisted at his side as he struggles to make himself understood.]
Red, I'm just asking you to talk to me.
[Unfortunate phrasing, maybe, but he's too caught up to catch it. (Maybe they dodged this bullet again, maybe she is fine. But how is he supposed to feel, knowing she'd been hurting and hiding it from him? That he might never have known anything was wrong at all until it was too late?)]
She's not unreasonable, at least ( most of the time, anyway ). Unfortunate vocabulary choices aside, it's enough to give her pause — guilt will take its time before it returns, but his request isn't entirely impossible. Even with her hackles raised, she knows he's not asking a lot.
( Well — sort of. But she knows that if she was standing on the other side, she'd be handling it a lot more poorly than he is, right now. And that's — that's enough for her to consider it, even for a moment. )
The silence stretches. She refuses to move. If there's conflict, she refuses to let it show. It's hard to convey tone when she chooses to remain expressionless, her movements curt and controlled — or maybe that's all that he needs to tell.
She takes off her jacket — the shirt she's wearing does little to hide the trail of color that starts on her arm, trailing up to the back of her neck. The edges of it fading, turning into a darker shade of her skin.
Identical to some of the victims, alive or dead. ]
[Even his slow-burning temper has limits, can crawl up to a boiling point after a bad day. And it has been, fighting his frustration and his self-inflicted too-tight rein on his mouth and her own stubbornness and her own frustration with the barrier her forced silence puts between them. She finally gives him what he's asking—not to the letter, of course, because she can't. But she stops trying to hide it, drops away the jacket to bare what's left of the experience on her skin.
He'd suspected. Seeing it laid out is different. The fight seems to drain out of him, all at once. Like he's been clocked in the jaw, voice low and hushed with restrained horror, growing guilt, the same breathless, helpless feeling as watching her fight through the city and take blow after blow and be powerless to stop it.]
Oh, Red. [He doesn't dare close his eyes, or he'll see the bloody halls, the burned skin on the victims. The nonsense fear that he'll open them to find the burns spreading, cracking and bleeding. Finally, he breaks out of the standoff to meet her where she stands. Rests his fingers lightly at the sides of her shoulders, as if afraid to hurt her further. Hesitates, as if unsure what to do, where to start. Until, simply, almost pleadingly—] I can't lose you.
[He'd tried and failed to keep her safe before. But please.]
You don't have to do any of this alone. Not— [Not always. Not as far as he can try and fail and try to be there for her. More than he could, in those few days. If, it seems, never enough.] Not anymore.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Her anger, as always, is a quick, flaring thing. Easily told in the tell-tale signs of a tensed jaw and harsher eyes, a mask of cold indifference settling on her face. Meeting fire with fire, every step of the way ( she's stressed, exhausted, and frustrated, all at once. Her track record of thinking through things alone still something she refuses to apologize for ).
At least the shock is gone. The confusion and the guilt being replaced with this, as tension rises in the room.
I wasn't going to leave him there. She couldn't. She's mourned before, watched someone's death play out in front of her. No one deserves that.
The place was cleared out. I wouldn't have gone back if it was still dangerous. ]
no subject
He can see her hackles picking up, feel it in the tense hum of argument ready to happen in the air. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't take advantage of the fact that she has no choice but to let him talk over her. It's been a long day, a long week, or more, and they're all at the end of their collective ropes in one way or another, and he really doesn't want to make it longer. But—he digs his heels in. Because it all sounds sensible enough, when she spells it out that way—until she claims that the place was cleared out. Safe. Because there remains the little problem of the jacket still clutched stubbornly and symbolically around her shoulders to keep him from knowing what's underneath.
So he doesn't raise his voice, but it comes away sharpish despite himself. It's been a long day—and it isn't as over as she'd like it to be.]
Don't lie to me, Red.
[Not like this. Not today.]
no subject
By that point, she couldn't turn back.
She holds his gaze — expression barely flickering when he holds his ground, because some part of her knows that he couldn't step down ( just like how she can't, either ). Not here, not over this.
So, once more ( with feeling ): I'm fine now. Don't expect me to apologize for going. ]
no subject
I'm not asking you to apologize.
[Don't put words in his mouth, Red. Here, the frustration bleeds through audibly. Hands fisted at his side as he struggles to make himself understood.]
Red, I'm just asking you to talk to me.
[Unfortunate phrasing, maybe, but he's too caught up to catch it. (Maybe they dodged this bullet again, maybe she is fine. But how is he supposed to feel, knowing she'd been hurting and hiding it from him? That he might never have known anything was wrong at all until it was too late?)]
no subject
She's not unreasonable, at least ( most of the time, anyway ). Unfortunate vocabulary choices aside, it's enough to give her pause — guilt will take its time before it returns, but his request isn't entirely impossible. Even with her hackles raised, she knows he's not asking a lot.
( Well — sort of. But she knows that if she was standing on the other side, she'd be handling it a lot more poorly than he is, right now. And that's — that's enough for her to consider it, even for a moment. )
The silence stretches. She refuses to move. If there's conflict, she refuses to let it show. It's hard to convey tone when she chooses to remain expressionless, her movements curt and controlled — or maybe that's all that he needs to tell.
She takes off her jacket — the shirt she's wearing does little to hide the trail of color that starts on her arm, trailing up to the back of her neck. The edges of it fading, turning into a darker shade of her skin.
Identical to some of the victims, alive or dead. ]
no subject
He'd suspected. Seeing it laid out is different. The fight seems to drain out of him, all at once. Like he's been clocked in the jaw, voice low and hushed with restrained horror, growing guilt, the same breathless, helpless feeling as watching her fight through the city and take blow after blow and be powerless to stop it.]
Oh, Red. [He doesn't dare close his eyes, or he'll see the bloody halls, the burned skin on the victims. The nonsense fear that he'll open them to find the burns spreading, cracking and bleeding. Finally, he breaks out of the standoff to meet her where she stands. Rests his fingers lightly at the sides of her shoulders, as if afraid to hurt her further. Hesitates, as if unsure what to do, where to start. Until, simply, almost pleadingly—] I can't lose you.
[He'd tried and failed to keep her safe before. But please.]
You don't have to do any of this alone. Not— [Not always. Not as far as he can try and fail and try to be there for her. More than he could, in those few days. If, it seems, never enough.] Not anymore.