[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.
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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.