[ He sits and stares at her and she's still saying the same thing. Because he knows she's lying, because she had screamed -- even if she might have called it less than that, it would still have been enough to attract attention -- the first time and if this were Dunwall she'd be dead before she had the chance.
And he doesn't know himself, in this. He doesn't know what she wants from him, what she expects and it's worse than maddening, it's terrifying. His hands grip tight, fisted in his pant legs like he might just bolt if he didn't hang onto something. ] I don't understand. [ His mouth parts on words he doesn't know how to form, because he should be more eloquent. ]
What do you ... expect of me? [ he thought she wanted cold, wanted cruel and empty and someone who did this before and didn't care. But here was insisting that he was less than that ( more than that? ). His life was not his, it had been hers and she had needed a protector and an anchor, and wholeheartedly he had given himself up to that. Then he had lost her, and Emily had needed less than a father and more than a protector, and the loyalists needed someone to do their dirty work -- and none of it meant anything more than what was required of him. Just like she had required something of him. Like any duty bound man, he did has he had been trained -- what he had been asked.
He was doing it now, still doing it. Without thought or consideration to himself, or anyone else, for that matter. ]
[In return for her little speech, Fiona gets something barely more
than silence. She stares for a moment, two, waiting for more. It doesn't
come.] I dunno...? [She leans forward a little bit, as
though that will help her understand. Or maybe it will inspire her to begin
to be able to explain all the things wrong with what he just said. The
missing beats in the song they were dancing to, the steps missing from the
stairs up the rover, all of them are clues. He is, again, more alien than
he seems.]
Do I gotta... expect something? [Is that how it works, out on the
far planet of his home?]
[ The confusion stays, the some frown that he feels almost angry, because it's easier than feeling so lost. She has to want something, has to need something, he needs it to define himself around. He was an extension of will, and never one of himself. He acts because others need him to, because they can't or won't do it for themselves, and somewhere along the line, his own will had been forgotten. He did as he was asked. He had always done as he was asked and made himself to whatever the task required.
Or, not that, not quite, he amends. He had some things, they had been his own choice. ( because there was a selfishness in the way that many years ago, when she pressed him back -- he hadn't pushed her away and placed duty between them, he'd gripped tight of her and pulled her against him. ) ]
Most do. [ No, not most. All but two, and they were who he'd given everything too without them ever asking. ] It is what it means to serve. [ and there's no self pity to the words, just a flatness that comes with exhaustion when it feels all so utterly useless. The tired feeling of swimming for miles and miles upstream, and eventually, there's a want to just like the current take and wash away the need to fight it anymore. ] And I have been serving a very long time.
[Fiona, meanwhile, reacts with a start, a little jolt of her shoulders. That wasn't the answer she expected. What did she just get herself into? She leans forward after leaning back, face pinched into an expression of sorrowful confusion. She's lost, here, but the situation is delicate. She needs to understand it.]
[What did she do?] You're not... serving me? [Why would he be? No one ever serves her, she serves herself, and others. It's not the other way around. She never wanted control of another person-- some innate sensibility (that would, if asked, define itself, perhaps wrongly, as 'American') rejects the notion. She only ever wanted control of herself.] Are you?
[ His gaze doesn't break, out of habit more than anything, he was made to watch, made to observe without speaking. In that, this is difficult, he doesn't appreciate having direct questions pressed against him, things of how he felt or thought. But she did it so often, asked him what he thought, about even that which seemed trivial, he wasn't sure exactly, what to do with it. He's trying it now, how to say it clearly, what he thought, what he thought she wanted.
But she looked so confused, and unhappy with what he'd just said that the refusal is quick, shaking his head. ]
No... No, I'm not. I am bound, to my death, to my Empress. [ It's a mutter, really, nothing more than a statement but it's etched with far too much devotion. But he doesn't linger on it. He frowns, and pauses on explaining about Emily, he's not sure, it's difficult, for many reasons and their are nuances there he feels a little too tired to go into. ] But you are asking two very different things of me, and I do not know how to be either of these things.
I'm asking something? [If she sounds concerned, it's because she is.
Fiona hates, fears and always, always avoids any outward sign of
selfishness or need. She tries not to ask anything of anyone, nothing
unfair or overly drawing. She's not some fluttering maiden who can't bear
to ask, but she has her own moral coda, one that demands she avoids actions
that remind her too much of the villains in her life. And they are
always asking and demanding and needing.] What am I asking?
[ It's a quiet counter, looking at her expectantly for what he does not know, but just as suddenly he's turning away again, shifting in his seat. Almost, almost ashamed but he can't place it, like he's been lying, like he doesn't know what to tell her, it's hard to put into one single thing. ]
You asked me to kill you, because you thought I was good enough, unfeeling enough for it, and you're not wrong. I am that selfish. Your decision was the right one. [ he licks his lips, cracked and dry on ugly harsh things that are far, far too true. ] But then you ask me, how I think, how I feel, you tell me I am not cruel despite what I did to you, would do again if that's what it meant to save my home... You ask me of myself, and no one... [ and he's too much conditioning in him to show how much that confused and scared him. His hands listless in his lap, eyes down. Confused and lost as a child. ] ... I do not know if you want me to be your killer or your friend?
[Things become a little clearer, and she isn't sure why. (It's because his posture reminds her, on some unconscious level, of that of a child, and Fiona knows how to deal with children.) As his back slumps, hers straightens, and she reaches out to take his hand. Her expression is sure, and everything is clear.]
[For other people, she can be strong.]
It was the wrong one, and I'm sorry. I didn't- I didn't want anybody confused. [Upset is what she almost said, but confused is better. That saves pride.] We are friends, okay? We just are. I didn't get that, it's my fault.
[ He goes still when she touches him, like it scared him more than comforted him. He doesn't know what to do with the affection, not really. It's confusing him, as much as he did it before and mimes the sanity better, maybe, than Wade, but he knows, knows far too well that he's not.
It's not fair to her, and he knows that, he knows he should be the one that was formal with this, that let this go like it was nothing. As if it were all nothing. It struck too deep, at something. Perhaps that was the nature of man, so often not defined in the positive, but in the negative. Cannot know what we are, but so sure of what we must not be.
But he knows, he knows he would like a friend, he would like peace, he wants -- wants to be less alone inside his own head with only a dead woman's murmuring to give him comfort. He doesn't quite take her hand back, but his hand shifts and his fingers press light to the inside of her wrist, pressing on pulse point. Warn with callouses and rough with a life time spent fighting, and her hands are far too small and fragile compared to them. ]
It is not your fault. [ He carefully lifts a hand and in return for her strength there is concern returned, brushing the hair back carefully from her forehead. ] I am glad to be called your friend.
[Fiona's hands aren't soft either. A life spent working doesn't leave much softness, even if they're not as hard and padded as those of a fighter. She has scars on her hands from knives, calluses from carrying and dragging. She has burns from too-hot metals and badly packaged chemicals. She knows she's no lady, even if others would disagree.]
It- I don't have a lot of, uh, friends. [This is a guilty admission-- for the first time, she realizes she has more friends on Ajna than she ever had in Chicago. Everyone always leaves.] So I'm, I'm glad I'm yours.
[But she, at least, can't live for too long in these earnest waters. There's always a fucking undertow if you don't watch it.] Even if they don't have rap on your planet.
[ His fingers laced through hers, careful. He does not have her -- but he thinks. Thinks of what she whispered so carefully, with too much compassion. More than he had or has. ( The fabric of the city is made of stuff such as she. ) ]
I would like that. [ his lips pull earnestly in a smile for a moment. It's a sad truth for them both then. It is not that he never wanted, it was just that he couldn't. Not once he released what his life would be like, serving his Empress. ] I have never been able to have friends before I came here. Not for a very long time.
[ he laughs, quietly. ] You are making very good at fixing this oversight by yourself. I would hate that to be taken off you.
[She laughs, small and kind of sad, but she's trying for his sake.] Yeah, I try, I guess. You're a better student than most of the people here. [She gives his hands a squeeze. Is it dumb that she feels safe around him? It's definitely dumb, but she does, and that's important to her in its own way. She doesn't often feel safe like this.]
[It's not that she expects him to save her, that's not important. It's that she knows he'll help her, and that's everything.] Thank you. I mean it.
[ He appreciates it. It doesn't mean much ( it means everything, really ). The grip is returned and held longer, his head down and he holds fast. Then he loosens, his hand turning enough to brush across the side of her hand. ]
I am sorry if I cannot always be... [ he's not sure what word he means to say, better? good? happy? ] ... well.
[Fiona likes fixing things. Particularly, she likes fixing things for her family, but they aren't here right now, so the world is what it was before she can remember: an endless string of band-aid solutions, and the tiny feeling of indescribable power that was granted from being able to make anything better, just for a moment.]
[She holds Corvo's hand.] You're fine. You're, uh, well. You haven't done anything. [She's the weird one. He's a killer, but that's a job, she guesses. It's something she's going to have to get used to, because red team is full of them, and they're... they're good people.]
[ He smiles, more a quirk than anything like happiness. Something to try and the edge off this conversation. It didn't work, but for both their sakes, he was attempting it. ]
We both know that's not true. It's alright. I don't need consolation about what I am. [ or he might, later, at another date. ]
I just do not wish to deceive you, you have been good to me. [ somewhat unexpectedly. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And he doesn't know himself, in this. He doesn't know what she wants from him, what she expects and it's worse than maddening, it's terrifying. His hands grip tight, fisted in his pant legs like he might just bolt if he didn't hang onto something. ] I don't understand. [ His mouth parts on words he doesn't know how to form, because he should be more eloquent. ]
What do you ... expect of me? [ he thought she wanted cold, wanted cruel and empty and someone who did this before and didn't care. But here was insisting that he was less than that ( more than that? ). His life was not his, it had been hers and she had needed a protector and an anchor, and wholeheartedly he had given himself up to that. Then he had lost her, and Emily had needed less than a father and more than a protector, and the loyalists needed someone to do their dirty work -- and none of it meant anything more than what was required of him. Just like she had required something of him. Like any duty bound man, he did has he had been trained -- what he had been asked.
He was doing it now, still doing it. Without thought or consideration to himself, or anyone else, for that matter. ]
no subject
[In return for her little speech, Fiona gets something barely more than silence. She stares for a moment, two, waiting for more. It doesn't come.] I dunno...? [She leans forward a little bit, as though that will help her understand. Or maybe it will inspire her to begin to be able to explain all the things wrong with what he just said. The missing beats in the song they were dancing to, the steps missing from the stairs up the rover, all of them are clues. He is, again, more alien than he seems.]
Do I gotta... expect something? [Is that how it works, out on the far planet of his home?]
no subject
Or, not that, not quite, he amends. He had some things, they had been his own choice. ( because there was a selfishness in the way that many years ago, when she pressed him back -- he hadn't pushed her away and placed duty between them, he'd gripped tight of her and pulled her against him. ) ]
Most do. [ No, not most. All but two, and they were who he'd given everything too without them ever asking. ] It is what it means to serve. [ and there's no self pity to the words, just a flatness that comes with exhaustion when it feels all so utterly useless. The tired feeling of swimming for miles and miles upstream, and eventually, there's a want to just like the current take and wash away the need to fight it anymore. ] And I have been serving a very long time.
why do u hurt me like this
[What did she do?] You're not... serving me? [Why would he be? No one ever serves her, she serves herself, and others. It's not the other way around. She never wanted control of another person-- some innate sensibility (that would, if asked, define itself, perhaps wrongly, as 'American') rejects the notion. She only ever wanted control of herself.] Are you?
because i love youuuuu
But she looked so confused, and unhappy with what he'd just said that the refusal is quick, shaking his head. ]
No... No, I'm not. I am bound, to my death, to my Empress. [ It's a mutter, really, nothing more than a statement but it's etched with far too much devotion. But he doesn't linger on it. He frowns, and pauses on explaining about Emily, he's not sure, it's difficult, for many reasons and their are nuances there he feels a little too tired to go into. ] But you are asking two very different things of me, and I do not know how to be either of these things.
crying about it
I'm asking something? [If she sounds concerned, it's because she is. Fiona hates, fears and always, always avoids any outward sign of selfishness or need. She tries not to ask anything of anyone, nothing unfair or overly drawing. She's not some fluttering maiden who can't bear to ask, but she has her own moral coda, one that demands she avoids actions that remind her too much of the villains in her life. And they are always asking and demanding and needing.] What am I asking?
they're a tragic mess goddamn
[ It's a quiet counter, looking at her expectantly for what he does not know, but just as suddenly he's turning away again, shifting in his seat. Almost, almost ashamed but he can't place it, like he's been lying, like he doesn't know what to tell her, it's hard to put into one single thing. ]
You asked me to kill you, because you thought I was good enough, unfeeling enough for it, and you're not wrong. I am that selfish. Your decision was the right one. [ he licks his lips, cracked and dry on ugly harsh things that are far, far too true. ] But then you ask me, how I think, how I feel, you tell me I am not cruel despite what I did to you, would do again if that's what it meant to save my home... You ask me of myself, and no one... [ and he's too much conditioning in him to show how much that confused and scared him. His hands listless in his lap, eyes down. Confused and lost as a child. ] ... I do not know if you want me to be your killer or your friend?
no subject
[For other people, she can be strong.]
It was the wrong one, and I'm sorry. I didn't- I didn't want anybody confused. [Upset is what she almost said, but confused is better. That saves pride.] We are friends, okay? We just are. I didn't get that, it's my fault.
no subject
It's not fair to her, and he knows that, he knows he should be the one that was formal with this, that let this go like it was nothing. As if it were all nothing. It struck too deep, at something. Perhaps that was the nature of man, so often not defined in the positive, but in the negative. Cannot know what we are, but so sure of what we must not be.
But he knows, he knows he would like a friend, he would like peace, he wants -- wants to be less alone inside his own head with only a dead woman's murmuring to give him comfort. He doesn't quite take her hand back, but his hand shifts and his fingers press light to the inside of her wrist, pressing on pulse point. Warn with callouses and rough with a life time spent fighting, and her hands are far too small and fragile compared to them. ]
It is not your fault. [ He carefully lifts a hand and in return for her strength there is concern returned, brushing the hair back carefully from her forehead. ] I am glad to be called your friend.
no subject
It- I don't have a lot of, uh, friends. [This is a guilty admission-- for the first time, she realizes she has more friends on Ajna than she ever had in Chicago. Everyone always leaves.] So I'm, I'm glad I'm yours.
[But she, at least, can't live for too long in these earnest waters. There's always a fucking undertow if you don't watch it.] Even if they don't have rap on your planet.
no subject
I would like that. [ his lips pull earnestly in a smile for a moment. It's a sad truth for them both then. It is not that he never wanted, it was just that he couldn't. Not once he released what his life would be like, serving his Empress. ] I have never been able to have friends before I came here. Not for a very long time.
[ he laughs, quietly. ] You are making very good at fixing this oversight by yourself. I would hate that to be taken off you.
no subject
[It's not that she expects him to save her, that's not important. It's that she knows he'll help her, and that's everything.] Thank you. I mean it.
no subject
I am sorry if I cannot always be... [ he's not sure what word he means to say, better? good? happy? ] ... well.
no subject
[She holds Corvo's hand.] You're fine. You're, uh, well. You haven't done anything. [She's the weird one. He's a killer, but that's a job, she guesses. It's something she's going to have to get used to, because red team is full of them, and they're... they're good people.]
no subject
We both know that's not true. It's alright. I don't need consolation about what I am. [ or he might, later, at another date. ]
I just do not wish to deceive you, you have been good to me. [ somewhat unexpectedly. ]