She's in the grave again. He's sitting at the edge, listening to her dig herself deeper, bloody her own hands on her tools. Guilt and grief, the edges still serrated. His own have dulled enough, it stings against his new skin, makes him wonder if he really is better, if he really can extend a hand to her without being pulled back in.
The tears he sits aside and lets her swallow. The story he listens to in pieces, lifting the mug to his mouth, finishing the tea as she speaks. He hears the words, but he doesn't focus on them, because they don't matter. He hears enough to know it isn't an apology, it's just a handful of switches, and she's flogging herself with them.
Crossing one leg over the other, he angles away, giving them both some space, turning himself to hide the bruise from her view, should she seek it out to prod the bruise in her--ego? He isn't sure what to call it. He isn't sure when she'll turn the serrated edge of her grief on herself, trying to cut the past out, or just trying to punish herself enough to match the hate. She's all conviction, self-loathing. It doesn't feel like a performance, quite, like she's doing it for his benefit. He's already forgiven her.
Kira breathes deep, runs a nail over the rim of his mug, staring down into it. "You're not a soldier here," he says, choosing the words carefully. "And you're not some kind of monster. But you are dangerous, and you won't get any better for anyone if you don't start to forgive yourself.
"You broke a promise. You hit me. It fucking hurt, and instead of getting to be scared for me, or getting to be angry with you, I'm just--sitting here. We're not at war. You're not a soldier and I'm not a civilian." Looking up, he tries to punctuate his calm by lifting the mug one more time, tipping back the last sip of his tea as he looks at her, like it's just another conversation. "Make a new promise, keep it. And when you can't, try again."
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The tears he sits aside and lets her swallow. The story he listens to in pieces, lifting the mug to his mouth, finishing the tea as she speaks. He hears the words, but he doesn't focus on them, because they don't matter. He hears enough to know it isn't an apology, it's just a handful of switches, and she's flogging herself with them.
Crossing one leg over the other, he angles away, giving them both some space, turning himself to hide the bruise from her view, should she seek it out to prod the bruise in her--ego? He isn't sure what to call it. He isn't sure when she'll turn the serrated edge of her grief on herself, trying to cut the past out, or just trying to punish herself enough to match the hate. She's all conviction, self-loathing. It doesn't feel like a performance, quite, like she's doing it for his benefit. He's already forgiven her.
Kira breathes deep, runs a nail over the rim of his mug, staring down into it. "You're not a soldier here," he says, choosing the words carefully. "And you're not some kind of monster. But you are dangerous, and you won't get any better for anyone if you don't start to forgive yourself.
"You broke a promise. You hit me. It fucking hurt, and instead of getting to be scared for me, or getting to be angry with you, I'm just--sitting here. We're not at war. You're not a soldier and I'm not a civilian." Looking up, he tries to punctuate his calm by lifting the mug one more time, tipping back the last sip of his tea as he looks at her, like it's just another conversation. "Make a new promise, keep it. And when you can't, try again."