[ She can't help herself, layers words over his own, unable to keep from teasing him, even now, even as he's answering her question with all the thoughtful gravity she's come to expect from him. ] You say indecent and immoral like it's a bad thing—
[ But he keeps going and she falls silent, her expression shifting at the words he pulls, self-conscious, from somewhere deep inside, and again when he stops short. He's not looking at her to see it, but it travels across her face: amusement fading, her brows flickering into a wrinkle, tugging together like she's pressed on a sore spot. I'm not, he says, and, god, she gets it. Feeling like you're always two steps too slow, two steps behind. Never fast enough, strong enough. Never good enough. He does everything he does to protect people, and they keep getting hurt anyway, and she knows. She knows exactly how that can cut you down, take your knees out, leave you feeling small and worthless.
She couldn't save Shorty. She couldn't save Willa, or Daddy. But he's— better than her. Maybe he's in over his head here, and maybe he's not the right man to try and stop a gunfight or a fistfight, but there are other ways to keep people safe, and he's... it's not what he does, it's what he is. He is safety, to her. The way being here in this little cabin is safety, the way family is. ]
You didn't fail me. This— ? [ She half-lifts her right arm in its sling, a motion that sends a sharp twang of pain through her. She rides it out, keeping her eyes on him. ]
This was not your fault. You weren’t even there. Hey—
[ Because she gets this, too. How fear snarls up into anger and chokes someone. How desperation turns into snapping words and arguments and frustrated horror because it's impossible to keep from losing people. People are lost all the time. Slowly, one by one, like with his crew, or all at once in an explosion of terror and screams scattering like shards of glass the way it was for her.
Their argument rearranges itself in her head, words and expressions shifting until she thinks she can see it clearly: his reaction, her reaction. His distress, his anger, the way he shouted, losing control for the first time ever—
Because he was afraid. Afraid to lose her. Afraid to lose her.
Her chest squeezes; the air feels suddenly too thin. She ignores it; she has to. ]
Look at me. [ She'd said the same thing there in the burning house. Grabbed his face, forced him to meet her eyes. This time, her hand lifts before she thinks; she almost has his chin between her thumb and bent index finger before she pauses.
It had been reflexive, easy, needed in Milton House, but now, here, in her little cabin where the only fire around is the one crackling safely in her stove, it suddenly feels dangerous to touch him. Her hand stops, hovers, fingers still loosely curled, an inch away from his face. She swallows against a suddenly dry throat — an unconscious gesture — and lowers her hand back to her side — an all too conscious one — before ducking her head, trying to catch and hold his glance, a stubborn furrow digging between her brows. ]
You are not gonna lose me.
I’m stubborn as hell and I’m harder to kill than you might think. And I know it makes you nervous when I do this stuff, but dealing with men with guns, dealing with guys like Logan and Mal, it’s part of what I do. It’s part of what I’m trained to do.
[ Now her lips relax toward a smile; it flickers and fades and grows stronger again, like flame catching a candle wick. Soon enough it’s steady and warm, if quirking more at one corner of her mouth and pressing the thumbprint of a dimple into that cheek. It’s a real smile, her eyes creasing toward half-moons, amused and wry and exasperated and fond all at once. ] Unlike you… you look like shit. What on earth possessed you to try and break up that fight? Have you ever even thrown a punch before?
[ There’s a low undercurrent of a laugh in her voice now, even as she looks back at that bruise marring his face, bloodying his eye, and her expression tightens, there and gone again, like the beat of a hummingbird wing. ] I thought he killed you for a second. [ Her glance flutters away, returns to meet his, tries to slide away again, and there's a little strain of too much honesty beneath the easy veil of humor she's clinging to. ]
Don’t know what I would’ve done to Logan if March hadn’t dragged me away.
I give up, it's indulgent essay o'clock
[ But he keeps going and she falls silent, her expression shifting at the words he pulls, self-conscious, from somewhere deep inside, and again when he stops short. He's not looking at her to see it, but it travels across her face: amusement fading, her brows flickering into a wrinkle, tugging together like she's pressed on a sore spot. I'm not, he says, and, god, she gets it. Feeling like you're always two steps too slow, two steps behind. Never fast enough, strong enough. Never good enough. He does everything he does to protect people, and they keep getting hurt anyway, and she knows. She knows exactly how that can cut you down, take your knees out, leave you feeling small and worthless.
She couldn't save Shorty. She couldn't save Willa, or Daddy. But he's— better than her. Maybe he's in over his head here, and maybe he's not the right man to try and stop a gunfight or a fistfight, but there are other ways to keep people safe, and he's... it's not what he does, it's what he is. He is safety, to her. The way being here in this little cabin is safety, the way family is. ]
You didn't fail me. This— ? [ She half-lifts her right arm in its sling, a motion that sends a sharp twang of pain through her. She rides it out, keeping her eyes on him. ]
This was not your fault. You weren’t even there. Hey—
[ Because she gets this, too. How fear snarls up into anger and chokes someone. How desperation turns into snapping words and arguments and frustrated horror because it's impossible to keep from losing people. People are lost all the time. Slowly, one by one, like with his crew, or all at once in an explosion of terror and screams scattering like shards of glass the way it was for her.
Their argument rearranges itself in her head, words and expressions shifting until she thinks she can see it clearly: his reaction, her reaction. His distress, his anger, the way he shouted, losing control for the first time ever—
Because he was afraid. Afraid to lose her. Afraid to lose her.
Her chest squeezes; the air feels suddenly too thin. She ignores it; she has to. ]
Look at me. [ She'd said the same thing there in the burning house. Grabbed his face, forced him to meet her eyes. This time, her hand lifts before she thinks; she almost has his chin between her thumb and bent index finger before she pauses.
It had been reflexive, easy, needed in Milton House, but now, here, in her little cabin where the only fire around is the one crackling safely in her stove, it suddenly feels dangerous to touch him. Her hand stops, hovers, fingers still loosely curled, an inch away from his face. She swallows against a suddenly dry throat — an unconscious gesture — and lowers her hand back to her side — an all too conscious one — before ducking her head, trying to catch and hold his glance, a stubborn furrow digging between her brows. ]
You are not gonna lose me.
I’m stubborn as hell and I’m harder to kill than you might think. And I know it makes you nervous when I do this stuff, but dealing with men with guns, dealing with guys like Logan and Mal, it’s part of what I do. It’s part of what I’m trained to do.
[ Now her lips relax toward a smile; it flickers and fades and grows stronger again, like flame catching a candle wick. Soon enough it’s steady and warm, if quirking more at one corner of her mouth and pressing the thumbprint of a dimple into that cheek. It’s a real smile, her eyes creasing toward half-moons, amused and wry and exasperated and fond all at once. ] Unlike you… you look like shit. What on earth possessed you to try and break up that fight? Have you ever even thrown a punch before?
[ There’s a low undercurrent of a laugh in her voice now, even as she looks back at that bruise marring his face, bloodying his eye, and her expression tightens, there and gone again, like the beat of a hummingbird wing. ] I thought he killed you for a second. [ Her glance flutters away, returns to meet his, tries to slide away again, and there's a little strain of too much honesty beneath the easy veil of humor she's clinging to. ]
Don’t know what I would’ve done to Logan if March hadn’t dragged me away.