[ it feels like it's been forever since she's been connected to anything at all. all the people on the living side feel so far away, and people keep sending her messages like they miss her and it's just. very hard to believe it, sometimes, when she hasn't seen them face to face in weeks. why would they still care?
he misses the others, and she can feel it, and she thinks - it should've been you that went back to the living.
silence, for a long moment. ]
Yeah, well. Maybe you'll remember that the next time you try to sacrifice yourself. Maybe. [ ... ] I told her I wasn't mad at her.
[ help LISTEN!!!! HE DID IT KIND OF LIKE TWO DAYS AGO ]
Yes, yes... Rupert gave me an earful about that as well, don't worry.
[ his noble sacrifices. believe it or not he's gotten better, in the months that passed in euchronia. here, he's learned there's little to ever be done to protect those he cares for, and it's not something he... accepted, but rather, something he's forced to live with. that, and... well, his death was not exactly not a sacrifice, but that's neither here nor there.
he glances over at vi, briefly. ]
Heart doesn't like to listen to logic. [ he gets it. ] Can't say I'm all that different, in the end.
[ there's this pang, again. guilt, low in his stomach, old. it's almost always there, like a mantle, draped on his shoulders, heavy enough to bury. it wasn't that long ago that he almost...
well. another time. in this moment, he thinks the same. it should have been you. maybe they could have spoken to each other. fixed it. taped up all those pieces. if strohl could've traded himself for vi, he might have done the exact same thing. ]
's okay if you still are, though. I don't think anyone'd blame you.
she bangs her heel against the cabinet a little more violently than she means to, rubbing at her wrist. pauses. stops kicking her feet. it's a good thing it isn't thoughtshare week because if she'd heard him thinking he would trade himself for her she'd punch him straight across the jaw.
there's a long silence after that last sentence. ]
Doesn't fucking matter, it's not like she meant to do it. So. Yeah, they would blame me. I'm not going to look like an ass for being mad.
[ a very, very bright and burning feeling of like, upset, of like... that heat behind your eyes, tight throat, flash flood warning. it's not on her face but it's coming off her in waves. ]
Yeah, well. I'm the only one who is, so who gives a shit, right?
[ she is so mad at him for not letting her drink right this second actually, wow ]
What do you mean, what, you're like best friends with her. She feels sooo bad about it, so it's fine that I got murked a week in again, because that's what my role is in these things, right? Perfect sacrifice for the person who just is so sad she did it.
[ it's like a fistfight with emotionshare - vi can likely feel it, the way the punch connects. his emotions rattle, shock and something hurt, and then the up roll motion from heels to standing of his anger, familiar, old, and righteous. ]
-- Did you hear a single word I said barely five minutes ago? Have you lost your mind?
[ about sacrifices, about how furious that idea makes him, about how ferociously protective he is and has always been of vi. it's funny. rosamund had gone the same way, in the opposite direction. you. just want to protect me. do you see me as a damsel in distress? ]
Don't water yourself down to that. [ first of all, firmly - even in the immediate brash anger, because he's not going to stand for it. and then, right after - ] Did you think I wasn't angry?
[ it really is like a fistfight, because she feels that shock and hurt and there's this grim feeling of satisfaction. there it is. there it is. there's the line. how much further can she push? ]
Were. But you're so fucking dedicated to doing the right thing, you and Eiselin both, and the right thing is to forgive her and be nice to her because it wasn't her fault. It wasn't even me on purpose! Did you know that? Again! Again, it was just whoever the fuck woke up!
[ it makes her feel like a petulant teenager, but maybe she isn't that far from that. she's spent a third of her life in prison, did you know that? really stunts your growth. ]
[ that's okay. she can yell and shout, but he scowls, hard, and turns right around to face vi, face to face, pot abandoned. ]
I. Know. [ he enunciates - the words sharp, snapped, fierce, his emotions just the same. barbs and fire, but steady. like a wave crashing up against an iron tower, a suit of armour. the royal warrior. he's grown some since the resort, but this is testing that, as all of his emotions start to wring up and pour out in his words.
and there's a crack that pushes through all that anger, too. something upset, something wailing and hurt for what he lost, a sharp glass shard of grief. ] She told me when I finally got the chance to speak to he when she wasn't possessed out of her bloody mind, and I got so angry I almost blacked out, because it was so bloody unfair to you! Do you think I just turned around and let it all go?! Who the hell do you think I am?!
[ the fury rolls off of him in waves, now, rising in righteous, thunderous indignation. anger for himself, for vi - and for rosamund, too. ]
We didn't speak. For a long time. She avoided me, and I couldn't even look at her because it made me furious, and I thought I'd snap. Every single time I saw her, all I saw was what she stole. And I still haven't forgiven her, even now, and I never will.
the grief twists her all up. the anger she can take, she's so used to anger. it's always anger, it's always wrath, it's always a fifteen year old girl knowing that the world isn't fair and swallowing it down because if she wasn't at the front, if she didn't do the right thing, everybody else would suffer for it. it's a fifteen year old girl and a twenty-two year old woman and a lifetime of watching the people she loves throw her aside for a mistake, for wanting her sister to be safe, for not knowing exactly what to do - she's expecting it to be the same here. it's always just another set of last words that weren't i love you, but another responsibility on her shoulders.
she chokes a little on it, brushing at her eyes in frustration. there's less anger in her than there is that lonely, lost feeling. she doesn't even know what to say to any of this, and it takes her a second to even speak without her voice breaking. ]
[ this bursts out of his mouth, the emotional intention of throwing his arms in the air. and then she brushes her eyes, and that lonely feeling hits him like a train.
all of strohl's anger comes from his heart. it is huge. bleeding, always bleeding, leaking his emotions and feelings everywhere. he cares so fucking much and it shows here, because the anger cracks apart into frustrated, devastatingly powerful care, something so fierce and loving that he crosses the space between them and puts both hands on her shoulders. rattles, when she speaks. if she smacks him, it's fine. it gets his point across - his eyes are wet, and there's that grieving feeling that ensconces every brutally honest word out of his mouth.]
Lord, Vi - I love you, of course I was angry, you bloody stubborn goat! So was Hulkenberg! The only reason things got any better is because we had the luxury to talk to each other and the luxury of time, something you and I have not been afforded in any way, shape, or form. If you're angry with me because I want to do the right thing, then you can be angry with me, but don't think for a second I'm casting you aside or pretending you dying, twice, right next to me, wasn't the worst bloody thing that's happened to me since home.
[ another fierce, sharp burst of grief at that. as home. as halia. he didn't put that tattoo on his arm out of whimsy. ]
I know you couldn't see it. I know what it must have looked like. I'm sorry, for that. Beyond all words and measure.
[ instinctively, when he grabs her, she tenses like she is going to hit him. it's the urge to protect herself, because whenever someone comes at her like that it's with intent to hurt. there's a little flash of a memory, of prison guards armed to the teeth coming at her with batons, the crack of one against her jaw. there and gone again. but she doesn't hurt him, she just freezes.
and listens, thankfully.
she and anders had talked about this. she doesn't want revenge. she doesn't want rosamund to hurt, she doesn't want her to die, she doesn't want any sort of vengeance. she just wants someone to love her in a way that she doesn't have to look for - and for her, love looks like anger, like being furious and destructive because it's big and can't be contained. it looks like always picking the person you love more, even if that's an impossible task. and she can never ask for it. she's barely even aware of it.
thankfully, she doesn't have to be. strohl straight up tells her, and she hiccups, embarrassingly, tears rolling down her cheeks. there is too much care and too much love and she hasn't felt something like this - well, ever, not blasted at her, not like getting hit with a fire hose. she's seen little flashes of it in the way powder used to look at her, in a hair ruffle from vander. she thought they loved her. she's pretty sure they did.
vi drags in a breath, and it shakes. ]
I - I'm not. [ ... ] I'm not angry at you.
[ she's just expecting it to go wrong, she's expecting things to change, she doesn't know what a healthy fucking relationship looks like because it's always you have to choose which side you're on with the people she knows, and so - here, you can have more context for that cyoa you went on, yaaay. part one and part two ]
this is disorienting, mostly because it's familiar - the lightning puts him on fucking red alert because he's felt that before, but staring at this memory is like suddenly putting on glasses and realising you've been blind. everything clicks into place and settles, and the memories of his own time in piltover blur and settle into this. there's the instinctual understanding of her sister if not the why, the way she shielded cait, the way she stopped cait. he knows how she felt about that woman because for a moment, he felt it too, and --
and then the end comes. that tiny, heartbroken sob focuses over the girl in front of him, angry and upset and lonely. god, does he know how that lonely awfulness feels, god does he understand, and he just -
he staggers forward - one step, two, and pulls vi into his arms for a tight, tight hug, breath coming half ragged like he was the one who just lost everything. the one who always chooses wrong. ]
[ it's just - if you could just get it right, if you could be smarter or stronger or wiser, you could make them work together. you could take care of your sister and you could have someone who maybe wants to hold your hand, you could have both. she has never had both. both sides have looked at her with a gun and said you have to choose which of us you care about more, and it was the wrong choice, every single time, it was wrong the first time and it was wrong this time, too, because her answer wasn't good enough for either of them.
i just want you to love me like you used to, her sister had said once. i won't change, caitlyn had said, too.
strohl moves forward and he pulls her into a hug, and she just gives in and hides her face against his shoulder, worn out. run through. she's almost too exhausted to cry properly, the grief and the anxiety and the feeling of being disconnected, left behind all too much for her.
[ the good news is she doesn't have to. not anymore. strohl hates the idea - hated it vehemently when he was stuck reliving this moment of her life, hated the thought that vi, now that he knows, was supposed to be torn asunder lie that between the things that she loves. he wouldn't choose, and he was punished for it.
those sort of dichotomies are the thing that the old world would ask of them. not anymore, in euchronia, not at home, not in will's world. not in the world that will be vi's, too, not if he can help it. for a moment, he's just sort of overwhelmed with his own emotions, a furious maelstrom of anger and worry and something righteously upset on her behalf, heartbroken for someone he's come to care about as close as family. that story she told him all those weeks ago in the resort about cait makes such perfect sense with all of the context, and for the second, third, hundredth time, he silently promises himself: never again.
his hand comes up to the back of her head, pressing gently - his other arm squeezes tight, and he half crumples, bowing over top of her to ensconce her in his arms. ]
Shh. [ softly, low - like she's a child, sometimes you just need that. sometimes you just need someone to tell you it's going to be alright. ] I've got you. I promise, I've got you.
[ sometimes you need someone to just hold you and tell you things will get better. she hasn't had that since she was a kid.
the thing about vi is she's always kept her tears to herself, whenever she could. there are people who rely on her, and if they see her crying, they'd be lost. it's not so much being afraid of looking weak as just not being allowed to be, and so she's trained herself to cry very, very quietly, curled in on herself. if she does it at all, even. in that memory, caitlyn had slammed the end of a rifle into her gut, right into a healing wound, because she knew it would hurt - but it wasn't the physical pain that made vi break.
she brings a shaking hand up to cling to the back of his shirt, and the only thing that gives away that she's crying is her shoulders trembling. an involuntary sharp inhale. well, and the grieving, weary feelings, feelings she never dealt with after she died. longing and resentment and uselessness, and a guilt that prevents this from even being that cathartic. how dare you show this.
it's comforting, though. it is. he's warm and safe and she loves him, too. that much is clear. ]
[ sometimes that's all you can do, is be a steady bastion for someone to cry on. whatever they were arguing about before doesn't matter, because this gets right down to the core of it. of course he cares for vi, of course he loves her, and there's not a day he'd ever choose. he thinks that life's been cruel to her because - it's hard to imagine her not desperately trying to do the same. she can cling as hard as she wants, and he just rubs her back gently and holds her tight.
it's the funny thing - they're both caretakers. maybe for the better, because it means they can look out for each other, too. his own emotions are a little less messy - they're fierce and protective, sorrowful, full of compassion and kindness and love for his best friend, a little rubbed raw after that confrontation but in a good way, in the way a crisp breath of cold air feels. she can cry on him for hours. if the kitchen burns down around them, it's not like they'll die for real anyway.
rocking them a little bit, he tucks his head against the top of hers. whatever conversation they were having can wait until she's wrung out and let some of this go. ]
she's tired and she's twitchy, taking those emotions and exhaling them out. her head hurts, and now she's all stuffed up on top of it, which really just makes her want to throw another fit, but she figures she's had enough time for those. they're still sort of fighting, but it's such a relief to have someone reach for her and hug her in the middle of an argument, instead of digging their nails in to make it worse. what a fucking novelty.
she gives herself a moment to let the last of it get away from her, and then, quietly: ]
S'the last thing I remember before showing up here. [ her voice is wet and garbage-y. ]
[ there's this very sudden burst of emotion when she says it was the last thing - something desperate and deeply determined, the near audible sound of a broken heart being snapped back together. they have to get her out of here. they have to, have to, have to. ]
...Pretty much all of it.
[ strohl says after a moment - he shifts, a little. reaches back, feels around for a dishtowel, and brings it between the two of them so she can wipe her face, and not like, blow her nose on his jabot or something. ]
Think I've been in your shoes more than you realise. It clarified some things.
[ he doesn't pull back too far but if she doesn't stop him he will wipe her face for her. like a fussy parent. ]
[ stop he's so FUSSY!! is the emotion, but it's so halfhearted and she only barely swipes at him before just letting him do it. he can wipe her face, even if she's embarrassed about it. she would not let a single other person do this. ]
M'not really surprised. [ that he's been in her shoes. maybe they don't know every bit about each other, but every time he says something she really just - understands it. sees it from his point of view. she falters a little, though, and: ]
Leon, I. [ hghh. emotional vibes of hesitancy, something pained and heavy. he probably knows the feeling, actually, the sense of responsibility, the heaviness of thinking you should do something you don't want to, something that has the potential to drown you. ]
[ he sure does, yeah. he knows that exact fucking feeling. he pauses in this gesture, towel still on her face, pluck of a string in his emotions of empathy and worry. ]
What? [ say it. can't help if she doesn't - better to rip off the bandage. ]
[ ... a chat with boothill's already prepared him for this - his letters, too. he's heard, already, of how vi's been hovering at the edge of this decision, so he's steeled himself for it emotionally and physically, too.
still, she'll feel how he draws up. battening down the hatches, preparing for battle, in a sense. the empathy stays, though - under the beating heart of everything, because he understands that feeling of guilt and responsibility so intimately it sings through his blood. ]
How, exactly, is it your fault? [ a pause. ] And how, exactly, do you plan to fix it?
[ this is so funny because boothill is the one that made her waver on her decision,
silence, for a moment, as she feels him stubbornly set his feet in. she rubs at her eyes, looking away and down. ]
Because I left her behind. [ a voice that sounds like - grius, really, it's so close in timber and grit - a voice from a father figure echoes: When people look up to you, you don't get to be selfish... whatever happens? It's on you. and then, softer, weaker, dying: Look after Powder. ]
Because it's my fault she's like that, I left her. She's something I created.
[ how are you going to fix it, he asks. well. that, she doesn't know, and she can't answer. ]
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he misses the others, and she can feel it, and she thinks - it should've been you that went back to the living.
silence, for a long moment. ]
Yeah, well. Maybe you'll remember that the next time you try to sacrifice yourself. Maybe. [ ... ] I told her I wasn't mad at her.
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Yes, yes... Rupert gave me an earful about that as well, don't worry.
[ his noble sacrifices. believe it or not he's gotten better, in the months that passed in euchronia. here, he's learned there's little to ever be done to protect those he cares for, and it's not something he... accepted, but rather, something he's forced to live with. that, and... well, his death was not exactly not a sacrifice, but that's neither here nor there.
he glances over at vi, briefly. ]
Heart doesn't like to listen to logic. [ he gets it. ] Can't say I'm all that different, in the end.
[ there's this pang, again. guilt, low in his stomach, old. it's almost always there, like a mantle, draped on his shoulders, heavy enough to bury. it wasn't that long ago that he almost...
well. another time. in this moment, he thinks the same. it should have been you. maybe they could have spoken to each other. fixed it. taped up all those pieces. if strohl could've traded himself for vi, he might have done the exact same thing. ]
's okay if you still are, though. I don't think anyone'd blame you.
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she bangs her heel against the cabinet a little more violently than she means to, rubbing at her wrist. pauses. stops kicking her feet. it's a good thing it isn't thoughtshare week because if she'd heard him thinking he would trade himself for her she'd punch him straight across the jaw.
there's a long silence after that last sentence. ]
Doesn't fucking matter, it's not like she meant to do it. So. Yeah, they would blame me. I'm not going to look like an ass for being mad.
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She killed you. You're allowed to be mad.
[ "what about hulkenberg" thats different ]
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Yeah, well. I'm the only one who is, so who gives a shit, right?
[ she is so mad at him for not letting her drink right this second actually, wow ]
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-- What?
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What do you mean, what, you're like best friends with her. She feels sooo bad about it, so it's fine that I got murked a week in again, because that's what my role is in these things, right? Perfect sacrifice for the person who just is so sad she did it.
no subject
-- Did you hear a single word I said barely five minutes ago? Have you lost your mind?
[ about sacrifices, about how furious that idea makes him, about how ferociously protective he is and has always been of vi. it's funny. rosamund had gone the same way, in the opposite direction. you. just want to protect me. do you see me as a damsel in distress? ]
Don't water yourself down to that. [ first of all, firmly - even in the immediate brash anger, because he's not going to stand for it. and then, right after - ] Did you think I wasn't angry?
no subject
[ it really is like a fistfight, because she feels that shock and hurt and there's this grim feeling of satisfaction. there it is. there it is. there's the line. how much further can she push? ]
Were. But you're so fucking dedicated to doing the right thing, you and Eiselin both, and the right thing is to forgive her and be nice to her because it wasn't her fault. It wasn't even me on purpose! Did you know that? Again! Again, it was just whoever the fuck woke up!
[ it makes her feel like a petulant teenager, but maybe she isn't that far from that. she's spent a third of her life in prison, did you know that? really stunts your growth. ]
no subject
I. Know. [ he enunciates - the words sharp, snapped, fierce, his emotions just the same. barbs and fire, but steady. like a wave crashing up against an iron tower, a suit of armour. the royal warrior. he's grown some since the resort, but this is testing that, as all of his emotions start to wring up and pour out in his words.
and there's a crack that pushes through all that anger, too. something upset, something wailing and hurt for what he lost, a sharp glass shard of grief. ] She told me when I finally got the chance to speak to he when she wasn't possessed out of her bloody mind, and I got so angry I almost blacked out, because it was so bloody unfair to you! Do you think I just turned around and let it all go?! Who the hell do you think I am?!
[ the fury rolls off of him in waves, now, rising in righteous, thunderous indignation. anger for himself, for vi - and for rosamund, too. ]
We didn't speak. For a long time. She avoided me, and I couldn't even look at her because it made me furious, and I thought I'd snap. Every single time I saw her, all I saw was what she stole. And I still haven't forgiven her, even now, and I never will.
no subject
the grief twists her all up. the anger she can take, she's so used to anger. it's always anger, it's always wrath, it's always a fifteen year old girl knowing that the world isn't fair and swallowing it down because if she wasn't at the front, if she didn't do the right thing, everybody else would suffer for it. it's a fifteen year old girl and a twenty-two year old woman and a lifetime of watching the people she loves throw her aside for a mistake, for wanting her sister to be safe, for not knowing exactly what to do - she's expecting it to be the same here. it's always just another set of last words that weren't i love you, but another responsibility on her shoulders.
she chokes a little on it, brushing at her eyes in frustration. there's less anger in her than there is that lonely, lost feeling. she doesn't even know what to say to any of this, and it takes her a second to even speak without her voice breaking. ]
I didn't see any of that.
no subject
[ this bursts out of his mouth, the emotional intention of throwing his arms in the air. and then she brushes her eyes, and that lonely feeling hits him like a train.
all of strohl's anger comes from his heart. it is huge. bleeding, always bleeding, leaking his emotions and feelings everywhere. he cares so fucking much and it shows here, because the anger cracks apart into frustrated, devastatingly powerful care, something so fierce and loving that he crosses the space between them and puts both hands on her shoulders. rattles, when she speaks. if she smacks him, it's fine. it gets his point across - his eyes are wet, and there's that grieving feeling that ensconces every brutally honest word out of his mouth.]
Lord, Vi - I love you, of course I was angry, you bloody stubborn goat! So was Hulkenberg! The only reason things got any better is because we had the luxury to talk to each other and the luxury of time, something you and I have not been afforded in any way, shape, or form. If you're angry with me because I want to do the right thing, then you can be angry with me, but don't think for a second I'm casting you aside or pretending you dying, twice, right next to me, wasn't the worst bloody thing that's happened to me since home.
[ another fierce, sharp burst of grief at that. as home. as halia. he didn't put that tattoo on his arm out of whimsy. ]
I know you couldn't see it. I know what it must have looked like. I'm sorry, for that. Beyond all words and measure.
no subject
and listens, thankfully.
she and anders had talked about this. she doesn't want revenge. she doesn't want rosamund to hurt, she doesn't want her to die, she doesn't want any sort of vengeance. she just wants someone to love her in a way that she doesn't have to look for - and for her, love looks like anger, like being furious and destructive because it's big and can't be contained. it looks like always picking the person you love more, even if that's an impossible task. and she can never ask for it. she's barely even aware of it.
thankfully, she doesn't have to be. strohl straight up tells her, and she hiccups, embarrassingly, tears rolling down her cheeks. there is too much care and too much love and she hasn't felt something like this - well, ever, not blasted at her, not like getting hit with a fire hose. she's seen little flashes of it in the way powder used to look at her, in a hair ruffle from vander. she thought they loved her. she's pretty sure they did.
vi drags in a breath, and it shakes. ]
I - I'm not. [ ... ] I'm not angry at you.
[ she's just expecting it to go wrong, she's expecting things to change, she doesn't know what a healthy fucking relationship looks like because it's always you have to choose which side you're on with the people she knows, and so - here, you can have more context for that cyoa you went on, yaaay. part one and part two ]
no subject
this is disorienting, mostly because it's familiar - the lightning puts him on fucking red alert because he's felt that before, but staring at this memory is like suddenly putting on glasses and realising you've been blind. everything clicks into place and settles, and the memories of his own time in piltover blur and settle into this. there's the instinctual understanding of her sister if not the why, the way she shielded cait, the way she stopped cait. he knows how she felt about that woman because for a moment, he felt it too, and --
and then the end comes. that tiny, heartbroken sob focuses over the girl in front of him, angry and upset and lonely. god, does he know how that lonely awfulness feels, god does he understand, and he just -
he staggers forward - one step, two, and pulls vi into his arms for a tight, tight hug, breath coming half ragged like he was the one who just lost everything. the one who always chooses wrong. ]
no subject
i just want you to love me like you used to, her sister had said once. i won't change, caitlyn had said, too.
strohl moves forward and he pulls her into a hug, and she just gives in and hides her face against his shoulder, worn out. run through. she's almost too exhausted to cry properly, the grief and the anxiety and the feeling of being disconnected, left behind all too much for her.
she just - she doesn't want to choose anymore. ]
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those sort of dichotomies are the thing that the old world would ask of them. not anymore, in euchronia, not at home, not in will's world. not in the world that will be vi's, too, not if he can help it. for a moment, he's just sort of overwhelmed with his own emotions, a furious maelstrom of anger and worry and something righteously upset on her behalf, heartbroken for someone he's come to care about as close as family. that story she told him all those weeks ago in the resort about cait makes such perfect sense with all of the context, and for the second, third, hundredth time, he silently promises himself: never again.
his hand comes up to the back of her head, pressing gently - his other arm squeezes tight, and he half crumples, bowing over top of her to ensconce her in his arms. ]
Shh. [ softly, low - like she's a child, sometimes you just need that. sometimes you just need someone to tell you it's going to be alright. ] I've got you. I promise, I've got you.
no subject
the thing about vi is she's always kept her tears to herself, whenever she could. there are people who rely on her, and if they see her crying, they'd be lost. it's not so much being afraid of looking weak as just not being allowed to be, and so she's trained herself to cry very, very quietly, curled in on herself. if she does it at all, even. in that memory, caitlyn had slammed the end of a rifle into her gut, right into a healing wound, because she knew it would hurt - but it wasn't the physical pain that made vi break.
she brings a shaking hand up to cling to the back of his shirt, and the only thing that gives away that she's crying is her shoulders trembling. an involuntary sharp inhale. well, and the grieving, weary feelings, feelings she never dealt with after she died. longing and resentment and uselessness, and a guilt that prevents this from even being that cathartic. how dare you show this.
it's comforting, though. it is. he's warm and safe and she loves him, too. that much is clear. ]
no subject
it's the funny thing - they're both caretakers. maybe for the better, because it means they can look out for each other, too. his own emotions are a little less messy - they're fierce and protective, sorrowful, full of compassion and kindness and love for his best friend, a little rubbed raw after that confrontation but in a good way, in the way a crisp breath of cold air feels. she can cry on him for hours. if the kitchen burns down around them, it's not like they'll die for real anyway.
rocking them a little bit, he tucks his head against the top of hers. whatever conversation they were having can wait until she's wrung out and let some of this go. ]
no subject
she's tired and she's twitchy, taking those emotions and exhaling them out. her head hurts, and now she's all stuffed up on top of it, which really just makes her want to throw another fit, but she figures she's had enough time for those. they're still sort of fighting, but it's such a relief to have someone reach for her and hug her in the middle of an argument, instead of digging their nails in to make it worse. what a fucking novelty.
she gives herself a moment to let the last of it get away from her, and then, quietly: ]
S'the last thing I remember before showing up here. [ her voice is wet and garbage-y. ]
... Sorry. M'sure you saw some of it before.
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...Pretty much all of it.
[ strohl says after a moment - he shifts, a little. reaches back, feels around for a dishtowel, and brings it between the two of them so she can wipe her face, and not like, blow her nose on his jabot or something. ]
Think I've been in your shoes more than you realise. It clarified some things.
[ he doesn't pull back too far but if she doesn't stop him he will wipe her face for her. like a fussy parent. ]
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M'not really surprised. [ that he's been in her shoes. maybe they don't know every bit about each other, but every time he says something she really just - understands it. sees it from his point of view. she falters a little, though, and: ]
Leon, I. [ hghh. emotional vibes of hesitancy, something pained and heavy. he probably knows the feeling, actually, the sense of responsibility, the heaviness of thinking you should do something you don't want to, something that has the potential to drown you. ]
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What? [ say it. can't help if she doesn't - better to rip off the bandage. ]
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I shouldn't leave that mess behind. It's my fault.
[ heavy, heavy, heavy. ]
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still, she'll feel how he draws up. battening down the hatches, preparing for battle, in a sense. the empathy stays, though - under the beating heart of everything, because he understands that feeling of guilt and responsibility so intimately it sings through his blood. ]
How, exactly, is it your fault? [ a pause. ] And how, exactly, do you plan to fix it?
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silence, for a moment, as she feels him stubbornly set his feet in. she rubs at her eyes, looking away and down. ]
Because I left her behind. [ a voice that sounds like - grius, really, it's so close in timber and grit - a voice from a father figure echoes: When people look up to you, you don't get to be selfish... whatever happens? It's on you. and then, softer, weaker, dying: Look after Powder. ]
Because it's my fault she's like that, I left her. She's something I created.
[ how are you going to fix it, he asks. well. that, she doesn't know, and she can't answer. ]
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