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. ]
[ picks up the steering from the cowboy to put the car back on the road. my car now.
silence for a long moment. it's not - it's not judgemental, or mean, and his eyes flick over her face as he tries to find the right words to say, because he gets it, he knows how that feels. ]
Far be it for me to to presume, and forgive me if I overstep. [ first, because he does have excellent manners but also because he knows that he doesn't know the entire story, but he'd listen. something about this tugs at his heartstrings so fiercely, so familiarly. young master leon, you have to let us take care of you, now. he has no family - his burned and burned and burned - so he's never known the feeling of a sibling, but he knows how it means to kill yourself over trying to make things right for something that was out of your control. ] But - she's an adult who makes her own choices, Vi.
[ of all things, he thinks about - of all the things, he thinks about kaworu, and the conversations they've had up to this point of vengeance and loss and justice, and what all of that means. how sometimes, you shy away because you don't want to be fixed. because the hands that help are bitten and that's a lesson someone just has to learn. ]
[ the thing is, under all of this, she doesn't want to go back. she doesn't. she does not want to go back to piltover and never see any of the people she loves here again. she doesn't want to go back and put herself in the politics of her world, she just. cannot bring herself to care about what happens there anymore, not when she's seen what other worlds have to offer. she's been promised so many tours.
but she would do anything for her sister. caitlyn is - not nearly as important to any of this, not after what she did and not after vi's only known her for a couple of weeks, but jinx. powder, her little sister, the only thing that kept her moving in prison, she would throw herself away every single time for a chance for jinx to live and be happy. in the memory he just watched, vi had gone in, ready to fix the problem, to kill her and be done with it, and she couldn't. she hesitated. dead is a solution, but it isn't the one she wanted.
does jinx want help? no. not really. but. vi's not sure that she wants jinx, and that's the biggest problem, right? is she chasing something that isn't there anymore? ]
[ nooo.... there's a desperate swoop in his emotions, pained and empathetic, a need in his own right to help. anxiety, briefly. (and guilt, too, just a little - would it be like this if he'd just succeeded the first time?) but he won't let himself get into it too far. that's a spiral for a different day, and his focus is entirely on vi.
he bites his lip. thinking. ]
... yeah. [ rough. ] Yeah, I can tell. What... [ ... ] What happened, Vi?
you have to give me memshare back soon because i feel bad unleashing all of this on you but this is really just the easiest way to explain it so. seven years ago, everything in her life came crashing down around her ears, in flames.
god. that's - there's a lot, to process, a lot that's way way way too familiar at the beginning. the utter chaos and devastation of her sister's toy bomb, the fire, the rubble and screaming and the monster, one he's fought before, it's a lot. for a second he's in the flames of halia again, but vi's agony is what keeps him in place, nailed to the ground to watch the horrors unfold. it's like a gauntlet runner wreck in slow motion, as each domino falls into place, as corpses hit the grounds and bodies twist and warp, as vi's world falls to pieces in a cacophony of explosions, sounds, and a crying little girl, at the very end.
strohl's emotions are a mess - horror, fury, recognition and pain, something that jolts when the monstrous form of what was vander staggers away from vi with a scream. our fathers would have probably gotten along, he'd joked, and he can't help but think that he was right. admiration and grief for the way that man drags himself away from his attacker despite being out of his mind, away from pain, grabs vi and whisks her to safety as his final act, for a damn good man, for vi's loss, for that visceral, resonant scream more like a feral animal in her grief, and the tragedy of her sister, at the very end.
it rattles him further than the first memory did. that one was familiar. this one's new.
he takes in a breath, as it ends, sharp as he drags himself out of her head, fingers flexing where he's still holding the towel by her face. were it not for the end, he might have been stunned into silence, but by the time vi's form crumples at the side of the building and they're back in this stupid kitchen, his eyes are wet, and he's so shattered watching her life fall to hell that he almost swoops in to hug her again. he doesn't - frozen, for a second, blinking rapidly and then - ]
Vi. [ strohl stumbles over it, roughly, coming back - half cupping her face in his hands. ] Hey - hey. Alright?
[ like. obviously not, neither of them are alright after seeing that, but he knows how easy it is to get sucked into your memories and he holds out his metaphorical hand, trembling even still. ]
[ she says, choking a little on it. jesus. sometimes these things hit and she feels like she's going to pass out from the way it feels to wrench back to reality.
for whatever reason, his reaction rips her up more than anything else. the empathy, the care that he gives her - it's not something she's really gotten. again, just. bare minimum kindness is what breaks her, as usual. he cups her face and she feels miserable. she misses her dad. their dads would have gotten along, noble men, not necessarily by birth but action. vander is who she models herself after, if she could be half as good as him she would be happy. both of them, right, both of them following in footsteps that feel too big for them.
and - she's still so angry at powder trying to help, she told her to stay back, but she didn't, and its her fault. she hurt her and she left her there and vi was a baby, too, she was only fifteen, but she should've known better. shouldn't have hit her sister. shouldn't have called her a jinx.
take care of powder. his last words were a prison sentence all on their own. ]
Sorry.
[ because it's a lot, but because she knows that he came from similar circumstances, and it can't have been fun to watch. she brings a hand up to rest over to top of his, and thinks about apologizing for the fresh batch of tears that spill over, too. ]
[ thankfully, he's used to being hit in the face with his own trauma, and nothing helps him more than being able to help others, than to help vi, to stumble them both forward and out of the fire and flames of the memories. her emotions are huge, but so are his, and he reflects them back to her in a feedback loop, not a perfect repetition, but something close. mirrors of grief and misery and loss. not - he's not angry, but he feels the way she is, feels how it resonates.
what stuck out to him was exactly that. she was a baby. both of them were. children, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have consequences, doesn't leave ripple effects in the lives of these two girls, even now.
he exhales out, slow, gathering his bearings, then shakes his head. keeps his hands on her face, because it's grounding for him too, even though she's crying. she'll see his eyes are a little wet in the intensity of how he looks at her, too, cracked open. ]
Don't apologise. [ barely eked out of his mouth, roughshod. ] 's alright. I'm the one who asked - can't... can't control when that goes off.
[ that's the easiest to get through first, besides the enormity of what he just witnessed, to let the sparks of emotional overload try to settle back down. so's this, the just so of a weak, rueful joke - ] Hate that it was... seven years. Right down to the day. 's starting to get ridiculous.
[ he'll get to the rest in a second. they can have a second to try and settle. ]
[ it's okay, it does make her laugh. it's a hiccupped thing and it sucks, but it's a laugh. ]
I told you. We walked right out of the same fucking storybook. [ ages ago, when he told her about the burning of halia, she almost thought it was funny, in a sick way. to find someone who feels exactly the same way you do, who has been through almost exactly the same things. losing all of your family in one go to the fire, to monsters calling themselves humans, to a revolution that they didn't ask for. but even with all of this, she thinks about how much of a relief that is. she doesn't have to explain herself as much because he understands where she's coming from, she can tell from the loop of the emotions, from the way he looks at her like her memories opened old wounds. thank god. what a horrible relief.
a shivery sigh. come down all the way, it's okay. she slumps into his hands, tired. ]
... I got out of prison, and she was going around calling herself Jinx.
[ so - it's hard not to feel responsible for it, but it's so out of control and he is right. her sister does not want to be helped, not anymore. what jinx wants from vi is something that vi can't grasp. ]
[ there's a little, sort of wet laugh on his end, too - for a moment, he can feel the weight of will's book in the satchel off the back of his sword, like a reminder, but that's for later, anyway. vi's right; it is the same story, in the worst kind of way, but in the better, too. there's a camaraderie there, an awful understanding of grief, crystallised down to its barest form.
he exhales out as she comes down, too, slow and steady, all those live-wire endings starting to melt away, bit by bit. achy little worry blips through his emotions, heavy concern. ]
... Bloody hell. [ not his most eloquent response, but, his response nevertheless. he can see it, how a name like that would stick. how a moment like that never leaves you. and worse, he can see exactly how old that wound is, where vi's guilt dropped like an anchor and started pulling her straight down. ]
[ she exhales slow again, trying to get the tension out of her shoulders. ]
Same amount of time. Seven years. [ she's only been out of prison for like, maybe a month. ] Got arrested like a few minutes after what you just saw.
[ a beat, and she absently reaches for his coat, or - something, just holding onto him somehow. grounding. she's wrestling with the sense of responsibility, with how much she just wants to be free of it, and how much guilt and love is just an intertwined thing for her. ]
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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
...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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silence for a long moment. it's not - it's not judgemental, or mean, and his eyes flick over her face as he tries to find the right words to say, because he gets it, he knows how that feels. ]
Far be it for me to to presume, and forgive me if I overstep. [ first, because he does have excellent manners but also because he knows that he doesn't know the entire story, but he'd listen. something about this tugs at his heartstrings so fiercely, so familiarly. young master leon, you have to let us take care of you, now. he has no family - his burned and burned and burned - so he's never known the feeling of a sibling, but he knows how it means to kill yourself over trying to make things right for something that was out of your control. ] But - she's an adult who makes her own choices, Vi.
[ of all things, he thinks about - of all the things, he thinks about kaworu, and the conversations they've had up to this point of vengeance and loss and justice, and what all of that means. how sometimes, you shy away because you don't want to be fixed. because the hands that help are bitten and that's a lesson someone just has to learn. ]
Does she want help? Honestly.
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but she would do anything for her sister. caitlyn is - not nearly as important to any of this, not after what she did and not after vi's only known her for a couple of weeks, but jinx. powder, her little sister, the only thing that kept her moving in prison, she would throw herself away every single time for a chance for jinx to live and be happy. in the memory he just watched, vi had gone in, ready to fix the problem, to kill her and be done with it, and she couldn't. she hesitated. dead is a solution, but it isn't the one she wanted.
does jinx want help? no. not really. but. vi's not sure that she wants jinx, and that's the biggest problem, right? is she chasing something that isn't there anymore? ]
I don't know. So much has changed.
[ her voice breaks a little at the end there. ]
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he bites his lip. thinking. ]
... yeah. [ rough. ] Yeah, I can tell. What... [ ... ] What happened, Vi?
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you have to give me memshare back soon because i feel bad unleashing all of this on you but this is really just the easiest way to explain it so. seven years ago, everything in her life came crashing down around her ears, in flames.
part one
part two
part three
part four ]
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god. that's - there's a lot, to process, a lot that's way way way too familiar at the beginning. the utter chaos and devastation of her sister's toy bomb, the fire, the rubble and screaming and the monster, one he's fought before, it's a lot. for a second he's in the flames of halia again, but vi's agony is what keeps him in place, nailed to the ground to watch the horrors unfold. it's like a gauntlet runner wreck in slow motion, as each domino falls into place, as corpses hit the grounds and bodies twist and warp, as vi's world falls to pieces in a cacophony of explosions, sounds, and a crying little girl, at the very end.
strohl's emotions are a mess - horror, fury, recognition and pain, something that jolts when the monstrous form of what was vander staggers away from vi with a scream. our fathers would have probably gotten along, he'd joked, and he can't help but think that he was right. admiration and grief for the way that man drags himself away from his attacker despite being out of his mind, away from pain, grabs vi and whisks her to safety as his final act, for a damn good man, for vi's loss, for that visceral, resonant scream more like a feral animal in her grief, and the tragedy of her sister, at the very end.
it rattles him further than the first memory did. that one was familiar. this one's new.
he takes in a breath, as it ends, sharp as he drags himself out of her head, fingers flexing where he's still holding the towel by her face. were it not for the end, he might have been stunned into silence, but by the time vi's form crumples at the side of the building and they're back in this stupid kitchen, his eyes are wet, and he's so shattered watching her life fall to hell that he almost swoops in to hug her again. he doesn't - frozen, for a second, blinking rapidly and then - ]
Vi. [ strohl stumbles over it, roughly, coming back - half cupping her face in his hands. ] Hey - hey. Alright?
[ like. obviously not, neither of them are alright after seeing that, but he knows how easy it is to get sucked into your memories and he holds out his metaphorical hand, trembling even still. ]
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[ she says, choking a little on it. jesus. sometimes these things hit and she feels like she's going to pass out from the way it feels to wrench back to reality.
for whatever reason, his reaction rips her up more than anything else. the empathy, the care that he gives her - it's not something she's really gotten. again, just. bare minimum kindness is what breaks her, as usual. he cups her face and she feels miserable. she misses her dad. their dads would have gotten along, noble men, not necessarily by birth but action. vander is who she models herself after, if she could be half as good as him she would be happy. both of them, right, both of them following in footsteps that feel too big for them.
and - she's still so angry at powder trying to help, she told her to stay back, but she didn't, and its her fault. she hurt her and she left her there and vi was a baby, too, she was only fifteen, but she should've known better. shouldn't have hit her sister. shouldn't have called her a jinx.
take care of powder. his last words were a prison sentence all on their own. ]
Sorry.
[ because it's a lot, but because she knows that he came from similar circumstances, and it can't have been fun to watch. she brings a hand up to rest over to top of his, and thinks about apologizing for the fresh batch of tears that spill over, too. ]
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what stuck out to him was exactly that. she was a baby. both of them were. children, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have consequences, doesn't leave ripple effects in the lives of these two girls, even now.
he exhales out, slow, gathering his bearings, then shakes his head. keeps his hands on her face, because it's grounding for him too, even though she's crying. she'll see his eyes are a little wet in the intensity of how he looks at her, too, cracked open. ]
Don't apologise. [ barely eked out of his mouth, roughshod. ] 's alright. I'm the one who asked - can't... can't control when that goes off.
[ that's the easiest to get through first, besides the enormity of what he just witnessed, to let the sparks of emotional overload try to settle back down. so's this, the just so of a weak, rueful joke - ] Hate that it was... seven years. Right down to the day. 's starting to get ridiculous.
[ he'll get to the rest in a second. they can have a second to try and settle. ]
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I told you. We walked right out of the same fucking storybook. [ ages ago, when he told her about the burning of halia, she almost thought it was funny, in a sick way. to find someone who feels exactly the same way you do, who has been through almost exactly the same things. losing all of your family in one go to the fire, to monsters calling themselves humans, to a revolution that they didn't ask for. but even with all of this, she thinks about how much of a relief that is. she doesn't have to explain herself as much because he understands where she's coming from, she can tell from the loop of the emotions, from the way he looks at her like her memories opened old wounds. thank god. what a horrible relief.
a shivery sigh. come down all the way, it's okay. she slumps into his hands, tired. ]
... I got out of prison, and she was going around calling herself Jinx.
[ so - it's hard not to feel responsible for it, but it's so out of control and he is right. her sister does not want to be helped, not anymore. what jinx wants from vi is something that vi can't grasp. ]
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[ there's a little, sort of wet laugh on his end, too - for a moment, he can feel the weight of will's book in the satchel off the back of his sword, like a reminder, but that's for later, anyway. vi's right; it is the same story, in the worst kind of way, but in the better, too. there's a camaraderie there, an awful understanding of grief, crystallised down to its barest form.
he exhales out as she comes down, too, slow and steady, all those live-wire endings starting to melt away, bit by bit. achy little worry blips through his emotions, heavy concern. ]
... Bloody hell. [ not his most eloquent response, but, his response nevertheless. he can see it, how a name like that would stick. how a moment like that never leaves you. and worse, he can see exactly how old that wound is, where vi's guilt dropped like an anchor and started pulling her straight down. ]
That's... how long were you there, again?
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Same amount of time. Seven years. [ she's only been out of prison for like, maybe a month. ] Got arrested like a few minutes after what you just saw.
[ a beat, and she absently reaches for his coat, or - something, just holding onto him somehow. grounding. she's wrestling with the sense of responsibility, with how much she just wants to be free of it, and how much guilt and love is just an intertwined thing for her. ]
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