crossmyheartandhope

[It's good enough. It's better than good enough.]

[Clinging for dear life means they're both still alive to cling.]

[...True.]

[(Which works out since it takes her much more than a minute.)]

[He stays for a while, just like that, just holding on - aware thanks to the proximity of the tension in her shoulders, and in her jaw.]

[(Aware that it's his fault they're there. If it's all done, shouldn't this be the easy part? How did he mess this up, too?)]

[At last, hesitant, his hand comes up to thread into her hair, slow and careful. When he speaks, his voice is still rough with the tears.]

...'s not your fault. You know that, right?

[That is completely untrue. If only she could force her stupid mouth to say--anything, god, but she can't do that right, either. She doesn't sink against his touch, but only just barely, and still isn't strong enough to keep her hands from knotting into his shirt.

(God! Pull yourself together; like he hasn't dealt with enough!)]

...O-okay.

[The "o" wavers, nothing about any of this is okay, but--maybe she can at least pretend.]

[The fingers slip through her hair, gentle, picking through the tangles he finds. His hands are maybe shaking a little, but that's - that's okay. That's probably okay.]

[He'll tell himself that's okay.]

For real. I - none of that was on you. Okay?

[Honestly this might all be pretty reassuring if it was in any way deserved. As it is, it only feels worse. Finally, she moves her hands from clenching his shirt to clenching the fabric of her pants, progress. Her tone is ginger, like she's unwilling to put put too much weight into it]

--You weren't too late. I--left you behind. You couldn't even've got up there, much less stopped me. Okay?

[He opens his mouth - closes it again.]

...I did get up there, though. Just - too slow, is all.

Or too quick. Either way--you're the one who did what they were supposed to. You're good, okay?

There's no - no supposed to in a game like that, there's - it's all wrong, from start to finish.

They - they were shooting at us, dude. What were you gonna do, come back down so they could take pot shots at everyone from a sniper's eye view? Just - just hang out on the wall like a target? There weren't any good choices, and that's not on you.

[His voice creeps up higher as he talks; toward the end, the words are coming a little too fast together, a little indistinct. His hand's stopped moving in her hair, but it stays curled there, protective, at the base of her skull.]

[The effort to force her tone light is obvious]

...Maybe there weren't good choices. But there sure were some bad ones.

That's the point, though. They - all of em were bad choices. You can't - you can't just make something with nothing, sometimes -

[The sentence cuts off, partway, with a sharp intake of breath. He has to pause, and breathe, and swallow against the tightness in his throat.]

Sometimes--sometimes you fuck up real bad. And sometimes other people gotta pay the price. I don't--

[Her voice cracks, but she pushes through anyway]

It's not your problem, okay? Don't worry about it. I won't-- I'll do better, okay?

You didn't fuck up. You - it's not on you, I don't -

[He doesn't know how to say it. He doesn't know how to make her understand. The hand in her hair is shaking a little again.]

[Raises her hand, slow, to cover his, feeling chill but still hot compared to him. And then, grips his hand loose, to remove it from her hair, because he shouldn't--he of all people can do better.]

It is on me. So can we not talk about this anymore?

[The grip on his hand isn't all that loose.]

[He's close enough that she can probably hear his throat work as he swallows.]

[The hand that had been in her hair curls its fingers closed, around nothing.]

...yeah.

[He'd been leaning up against her, still, most of his weight pressed into her side, but he shifts now - reluctant, not entirely steady - so that he's sitting up under his own power. So that there's some space between them, again.]

Y-yeah, I - sorry.

[Shudders, a little, but doesn't stop him. Moves her hands back to her lap, pulls up something close to a smile, or at least farther from a frown]

Anyway--doesn't matter now. Put it behind you, move on. ...Easy.

[Folds her arms, tight]

[It takes him a beat or two to get his face to do what he wants, but he gets there, eventually. On his lap, the hands are holding so tight to the fabric of his pants that the knuckles are white.]

...yeah. Easy.

Right.

[Right.

She stares at where the mattress tag hangs from the corner of the fort on this end, then at where the walls don't quite meet and you can see out to the rest of the room. Honestly she looks at a lot of places that aren't his face because It's Better This Way before letting out a breath and crawling out of the fort]

[It's probably a good thing she wasn't looking, because his face does something that's very much not on script when she gets up to go.]

[He just kind of... folds in on himself, one arm coming up to wrap around his torso. The other hand, he brings to his mouth - bites down hard on the meaty part of the thumb to keep the sound that's trying to come out of his throat trapped where it belongs.]

[Indeed, this is the one time she succeeds at having any sort of focus--keeps her arms hugged around her as she low-key books it from the room, not even remembering her coat or boots until she's out on the rooftop and feeling the full brunt of the wind.

Which--fine. It's fine. She--had better get used to cold anyway, and--

Another couple quick steps, and she's curled tight into a corner, face buried in her knees. Just for a minute. Just--maybe for a few.]

[He stays exactly where he is, for a long time - folded in on himself, arms holding on as tight as they can to nothing. It's a familiar pose, by now.]

[He ought to get up. He ought to unplug the blanket, and the kettle, and clean up the drinks. He ought to go back to the dorms.]

[There's no one here.]

[But it's hard, to uncurl himself and think about moving. He's awfully tired, suddenly. So he just - stays.]

[He needed to practice anyway, right?]

[Besides, like she said. Easy.]

[Oh-so-simple, that's why it's going so well]

[And it does. Go.]

[Some barely two-digit number of minutes later, there's loud, obvious fumbling at the door handle before it swings open. Nemesis returns, walking stiff and smelling not-so-faintly of Febreze. It's not quite warm enough in the hideout for her glasses to fog, but her fingers are white, ears and nose red. Entering proper she heads for the kettle, casual]

...Making tea, if you want some.

[He goes very, very still as she comes back in - tracks her progress with his eyes as she goes for the tea.]

I - what?

[Dumps some tea leaves into a chipped tea pot, then adds the water]

That's the whole point of the electric kettle. I mean, I'm pretty sure the water here's potable without boiling it.

[Give him a second.]

[Actually a couple of seconds.]

[His brain is maybe buffering still, and he looks like he might start crying.]

Re: Day 79, late

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