[ she can't imagine how much worse it would've been if he hadn't been dead to welcome rosamund, really. she's kind of glad he is, past the selfish need she has for him here. yay, codependency.
she pulls him close and rests a hand on the back of his head. she doesn't mind that he's upset - she doesn't mind that he's angry. he should be. he can have the outlet with her, because she wants to give back, and so she does, her emotions quiet but coaxing. care and love, too. a bond she hasn't really felt since she stood on a roof with her little sister and promised her they'd make the city respect them. ]
Be pissed off.
[ she tells him, still muffled. ]
She'll come back, and you can be there for her, but until then, be fucking furious, man, don't push it down. It helps.
[ it helps her, anyway. maybe she can fight him. maybe that'll help both of them, honestly, she's thinking about it. ]
[ the anger doesn't quite go away, even through this - it's always there, pulsing somewhere under the surface, and when vi says the actual words, he scoffs a little, but it's not at her - just at the idea, in general. ]
Trust me, it's gone nowhere.
[ and it hasn't - and there's more to it than that. the frustration is more than just at this moment, it's bone deep and angry. it's the same ancient fury that drives him relating to home, to halia, the same fury he felt at louis, no matter the horrifying fact that they were similar, no matter the moment of brief, shattering empathy. it's buried in every piece of muscle and tissue of his body, in every line of sinew no matter how mature he gets, no matter how much learns to bite his tongue.
he's still tense, near vibrating, even, as he finally pulls back a little from the gesture, jittering in place, a pile of pent up energy and anger and grief (grief, sharp as a glass shard, grief that never goes away either) with nowhere to go. trapped on this side, trapped in this place, trapped, trapped, trapped. ] Place never takes enough, does it? Always has to get worse.
[ he pulls back, and she can see the jittery, horrible energy. ]
... She'll be fine. It's bad, but it could've been way worse.
[ maybe she sees things differently as someone who has been dead forever, but the deaths here are almost a relief, for her. it's one more person that remembers she exists. it's one more connection she can reignite. she's unhappy that rosamund died, that she went through the pain of it, but. now she doesn't have to suffer the living side anymore, and vi thinks that's almost more of a blessing than not.
still. she can feel the frustration in him, the fury, and she can match that. she knows that grief, too. and so instead of dragging him off to get drunk first, she pulls back the rest of the way, and shoves him a little. just to see. just to provoke. ]
If it hasn't gone anywhere, then let me see it, jackass.
[ if he wants - she won't press him to fight if he doesn't want to, but there's a goading emotion in her. c'mon. get that pent up energy out? ]
[ it's less the death than it is the helplessness. it's less the death than it is watching. it's the same as waking up in the aftermath of thursday nights knowing your best friend died when she was right next to you, the night before, and you were lulled into some forceful sleep and unable to do anything about it, knowing it happened twice. there's something so visceral about having to watch from a distance, and then to make it worse, the person returns all wrong, mind messed with beyond all belief. it's hard, for strohl. he's never once in his life been a passive observer, and he hates feeling powerless, because - well. it's a reminder of the past, of how worthless he actually is when it comes to protecting anyone he cares for.
all of those awful, rancid thoughts are swirling when she shoves him - they startle, a crystallised ! and he turns to look at her, scowling a little.
...
and then huffs, sets his hand on his shoulder, cracks his neck. ]
Show me the cage, then.
[ because in the end, he doesn't want to wallow. he's not the kind of person to wallow, either. maybe doing something will help, and - under all of that, there's this thread of gratitude. ]
[ she elbows him - bumps their shoulders together. she gets it. she really does. watching is torture, but she's learned how to deal with it through drinking herself to sleep and getting the shit beat out of her in a cage match, so. she gives him what she knows. it's certainly not talking about it. ]
Gotta fight me first.
[ she says, brushing at her mouth with her arm, before turning and leading him off towards the cage. she's not one for weapons, but with her gauntlets? it'll just be like weeks ago, after boothill's trial.
there's a familiarity there that she clings to. that she feels, so strongly. in fact, she echos it a little, as they're walking: ]
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no subject
she pulls him close and rests a hand on the back of his head. she doesn't mind that he's upset - she doesn't mind that he's angry. he should be. he can have the outlet with her, because she wants to give back, and so she does, her emotions quiet but coaxing. care and love, too. a bond she hasn't really felt since she stood on a roof with her little sister and promised her they'd make the city respect them. ]
Be pissed off.
[ she tells him, still muffled. ]
She'll come back, and you can be there for her, but until then, be fucking furious, man, don't push it down. It helps.
[ it helps her, anyway. maybe she can fight him. maybe that'll help both of them, honestly, she's thinking about it. ]
no subject
Trust me, it's gone nowhere.
[ and it hasn't - and there's more to it than that. the frustration is more than just at this moment, it's bone deep and angry. it's the same ancient fury that drives him relating to home, to halia, the same fury he felt at louis, no matter the horrifying fact that they were similar, no matter the moment of brief, shattering empathy. it's buried in every piece of muscle and tissue of his body, in every line of sinew no matter how mature he gets, no matter how much learns to bite his tongue.
he's still tense, near vibrating, even, as he finally pulls back a little from the gesture, jittering in place, a pile of pent up energy and anger and grief (grief, sharp as a glass shard, grief that never goes away either) with nowhere to go. trapped on this side, trapped in this place, trapped, trapped, trapped. ] Place never takes enough, does it? Always has to get worse.
no subject
... She'll be fine. It's bad, but it could've been way worse.
[ maybe she sees things differently as someone who has been dead forever, but the deaths here are almost a relief, for her. it's one more person that remembers she exists. it's one more connection she can reignite. she's unhappy that rosamund died, that she went through the pain of it, but. now she doesn't have to suffer the living side anymore, and vi thinks that's almost more of a blessing than not.
still. she can feel the frustration in him, the fury, and she can match that. she knows that grief, too. and so instead of dragging him off to get drunk first, she pulls back the rest of the way, and shoves him a little. just to see. just to provoke. ]
If it hasn't gone anywhere, then let me see it, jackass.
[ if he wants - she won't press him to fight if he doesn't want to, but there's a goading emotion in her. c'mon. get that pent up energy out? ]
no subject
all of those awful, rancid thoughts are swirling when she shoves him - they startle, a crystallised ! and he turns to look at her, scowling a little.
...
and then huffs, sets his hand on his shoulder, cracks his neck. ]
Show me the cage, then.
[ because in the end, he doesn't want to wallow. he's not the kind of person to wallow, either. maybe doing something will help, and - under all of that, there's this thread of gratitude. ]
no subject
Gotta fight me first.
[ she says, brushing at her mouth with her arm, before turning and leading him off towards the cage. she's not one for weapons, but with her gauntlets? it'll just be like weeks ago, after boothill's trial.
there's a familiarity there that she clings to. that she feels, so strongly. in fact, she echos it a little, as they're walking: ]
Or try to, at least.