He meant that (mostly? he thinks, probably) as a warning. But her response makes no sense. Undoes his sense. She speaks, and everything shifts unstable. She speaks, and his thoughts collide, then dissipate to nothing.
His fingers turn to clenching, clamminess across his skin.
A certainty: she’s speaking nonsense.
A question: What does she want, what is she doing to him?
A lack: He can’t make sense of her words, can’t draw them back.
He doesn’t comprehend any of it.
What he understands is her hand held close; not touching, only hovering some… mockery? Some promise? (False promise.) (But hadn’t he felt. Almost. For a moment or two. Eased by her touch? A sense of that; he knows he felt that.)
It doesn’t matter what she said. Her presence is extraneous. They don’t and they shouldn’t have anything to do with one another. (Why is she here?)
And still he finds himself stumbling in a search for recollection, as if what she said mattered in some way. As if he gave a damn, and as if that hand (why is she so close to him (why won’t (why won’t she touch him again))) drew his focus toward her. As if that hand demanded he heed her words.
Words filter back slow and hazy, echoes of a… What was it. A feeling; a bristling and a shock. Words that didn’t make an ounce of sense. Words misapplied, or… He feels. He thinks. She’d been mocking
Speaking of sacrifice (daggered fucking word, isn’t it always?). Stranger.
And. Dearest? Dearly…? Dear. Dear… Dear, sweet little Treavor?
His jaw draws tense, and he’s pushing further back against the chair, eyes fixed on her own, not daring to look at (don’t let her think he’d care to feel) her hand. ]
Is this it?
[ He doesn’t feel right. Rubs his thumb fretfully again his forefinger. Feels the pressure of his teeth clamping. He’d. He could use. He’d like a drink.
There’s a glass nearby. But he can’t afford to stop watching her. ]
no subject
He meant that (mostly? he thinks, probably) as a warning. But her response makes no sense. Undoes his sense. She speaks, and everything shifts unstable. She speaks, and his thoughts collide, then dissipate to nothing.
His fingers turn to clenching, clamminess across his skin.
A certainty: she’s speaking nonsense.
A question: What does she want, what is she doing to him?
A lack: He can’t make sense of her words, can’t draw them back.
He doesn’t comprehend any of it.
What he understands is her hand held close; not touching, only hovering some… mockery? Some promise? (False promise.) (But hadn’t he felt. Almost. For a moment or two. Eased by her touch? A sense of that; he knows he felt that.)
It doesn’t matter what she said. Her presence is extraneous. They don’t and they shouldn’t have anything to do with one another. (Why is she here?)
And still he finds himself stumbling in a search for recollection, as if what she said mattered in some way. As if he gave a damn, and as if that hand (why is she so close to him (why won’t (why won’t she touch him again))) drew his focus toward her. As if that hand demanded he heed her words.
Words filter back slow and hazy, echoes of a… What was it. A feeling; a bristling and a shock. Words that didn’t make an ounce of sense. Words misapplied, or… He feels. He thinks. She’d been mocking
Speaking of sacrifice (daggered fucking word, isn’t it always?). Stranger.
And. Dearest? Dearly…? Dear. Dear… Dear, sweet little Treavor?
His jaw draws tense, and he’s pushing further back against the chair, eyes fixed on her own, not daring to look at (don’t let her think he’d care to feel) her hand. ]
Is this it?
[ He doesn’t feel right. Rubs his thumb fretfully again his forefinger. Feels the pressure of his teeth clamping. He’d. He could use. He’d like a drink.
There’s a glass nearby. But he can’t afford to stop watching her. ]
Mock me all you’ll like.
You aren't the first.