[ Little doesn't look at her the way March does, as if she's a puzzle box he's trying to figure out, as if he's peeling back each layer to expose her vulnerable core, like recognizing like. He doesn't look at her like she's a crime scene he's trying to piece together. When she lowers her gaze from the ceiling and finds his again, it's like he already knows... everything, as if somehow he's looked past the layers of bullshit and bravado like they don't even exist and straight into her bruised and battered heart to see— who knows what, but whatever it is, he doesn't turn away from it. From her. He never has.
He sees her, and every time she expects him to realize he should be moving away as quickly as possible, that he'd made a terrible mistake when he promised not to pull away from her again. She keeps waiting for something appalled and disgusted to surface in his warm brown eyes. Nothing in her is prepared for the way he searches her expression, her face, her eyes, like he wants to go even deeper. Like he truly believes there's nothing he could see there that would make him want to turn away again, even when she knows that can't possibly be true. He might be searching out her heart, the truth of her, but the truth of her is lined with traps and snares, spikes and blades. If he reaches for her right now, she thinks he'd pull his hand back scarred and bleeding.
Reaching up, she scrubs at her tired face with both hands, then runs them distractedly through her hair, all ten fingers sinking in, giving her some sort of anchor now that she's not touching him any longer. ]
No one does. No one who still has a soul. But you're—
[ What is he? What is it about him that makes this such a nightmare? Nobody's perfect, and he certainly isn't. She herself has thought he should stop carrying that shotgun around if he's not prepared to actually use it. And now he has, and it's heartbreaking, his anguish, his guilt. All she wants is to pry it off his shoulders and set it on her own and she can't. No one can. And he wouldn't want her to even if she could, because he might not be a perfect man, but he's a good one.
She lowers her hands and meets his glance again, offering the only aid she can: to let him lance this wound in a place where he's safe, with a person who gets it better than he could ever know. ]
Why do you think you do? Tell me. Just get it out.
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He sees her, and every time she expects him to realize he should be moving away as quickly as possible, that he'd made a terrible mistake when he promised not to pull away from her again. She keeps waiting for something appalled and disgusted to surface in his warm brown eyes. Nothing in her is prepared for the way he searches her expression, her face, her eyes, like he wants to go even deeper. Like he truly believes there's nothing he could see there that would make him want to turn away again, even when she knows that can't possibly be true. He might be searching out her heart, the truth of her, but the truth of her is lined with traps and snares, spikes and blades. If he reaches for her right now, she thinks he'd pull his hand back scarred and bleeding.
Reaching up, she scrubs at her tired face with both hands, then runs them distractedly through her hair, all ten fingers sinking in, giving her some sort of anchor now that she's not touching him any longer. ]
No one does. No one who still has a soul. But you're—
[ What is he? What is it about him that makes this such a nightmare? Nobody's perfect, and he certainly isn't. She herself has thought he should stop carrying that shotgun around if he's not prepared to actually use it. And now he has, and it's heartbreaking, his anguish, his guilt. All she wants is to pry it off his shoulders and set it on her own and she can't. No one can. And he wouldn't want her to even if she could, because he might not be a perfect man, but he's a good one.
She lowers her hands and meets his glance again, offering the only aid she can: to let him lance this wound in a place where he's safe, with a person who gets it better than he could ever know. ]
Why do you think you do? Tell me. Just get it out.