Wheeling on a heel, there is no heat or scent on the breeze to tell him to stop. Nothing to distract him from her anger, becoming his own, and tell him that going home or turning back to her is the right answer. There are no answers anymore, but what he digs his hands into and takes. There is no blocking her out, just horns fitting together and heads butting in the thin fog of early morning.
The mug hitting the other, the pair of them rolling into the water with a clack of resin to resin should be the warning. Her anger can spark and kindle his own, but there is violence built into her that he's avoided. There are entirely different responses knit to their bones, and maybe that's her point.
His feet don't care, marching him back into her space just as she's written him into a distance. "I get to demand," he says, voice going hoarse in his aching throat. "You attacked me. You forgot who I was and you could have killed me, hitting me like that in a place like this. Do you get that? I'm not fragile and you're not a monster but fuck, Jyn, I'm a person. You did that, and after that you ran away from me, and made excuses, and now it's my fault not accepting that as a real apology because obviously I just didn't understand them."
He could shove her, he thinks. He could shake her. It's in his hands to do that much, but it wouldn't help. It would just force him to feel her being shoved, and her anger, and her response. He never gets to forget what people are, or their excuses. He was going to let a man shoot him because the man was scared, and resentful, and he could understand want of a coat and a corpse at your back instead of another mouth to feed. "I don't have to tell you who I am, or fill a quota of fucking loss to have some boundaries. And I'm not some sniveling wounded lowlife for trying to explain them."
His throat closes up all the tighter, and he swallows, feels a burn in his sinuses and wrists, as he refuses the emotion trying to spill over.
no subject
The mug hitting the other, the pair of them rolling into the water with a clack of resin to resin should be the warning. Her anger can spark and kindle his own, but there is violence built into her that he's avoided. There are entirely different responses knit to their bones, and maybe that's her point.
His feet don't care, marching him back into her space just as she's written him into a distance. "I get to demand," he says, voice going hoarse in his aching throat. "You attacked me. You forgot who I was and you could have killed me, hitting me like that in a place like this. Do you get that? I'm not fragile and you're not a monster but fuck, Jyn, I'm a person. You did that, and after that you ran away from me, and made excuses, and now it's my fault not accepting that as a real apology because obviously I just didn't understand them."
He could shove her, he thinks. He could shake her. It's in his hands to do that much, but it wouldn't help. It would just force him to feel her being shoved, and her anger, and her response. He never gets to forget what people are, or their excuses. He was going to let a man shoot him because the man was scared, and resentful, and he could understand want of a coat and a corpse at your back instead of another mouth to feed. "I don't have to tell you who I am, or fill a quota of fucking loss to have some boundaries. And I'm not some sniveling wounded lowlife for trying to explain them."
His throat closes up all the tighter, and he swallows, feels a burn in his sinuses and wrists, as he refuses the emotion trying to spill over.