[Her retreat hurts a little, but since he'd more or less asked for it, he says nothing, just watches quietly and listens as she explains. Reminded... not to hurt him? There's plenty of people who could have told her that, and while he appreciates the sentiment he's not thrilled about the results. He could ask her who, and is tempted to do so, but that would probably just invite another fight with another person, and he's already hating this one. He's sure they meant well. Just- now he has to deal with the fallout.]
Someone told you that? [He doesn't need to wait for an answer; the look on her face is enough, an earnest confession of guilt over a warning not heeded. It wouldn't be like her to lie in order to blame someone else for stirring up her insecurities.] A month... and you kept quiet this whole time.
[He turns then, rubbing at his forehead, and goes back to pacing for a long moment. She forgot, because she was happy- that she's some kind of weapon, that she's not human, that she's meant to cause harm. She remembered all of that, because she was asked not to hurt him. She remembered that he's going to die. And she's just- pretended that everything's been okay, that it hasn't bothered her, like that day in the shower when he'd forgotten to ask. And now she worries that any of that matters, because- what, she's got human competition now, in a contest no one else knows they're in, when it's already meant to be over because she won.
It's- it's a lot, and not something easily fixed. He can't just throw his hands up and go, "it's fine! you won't hurt me!" when they both know she just did. And he can't tell her not to be afraid of doing so again, because emotions don't work like that. He's had enough people tell him to get over it in his lifetime to know that's not how you resolve such a visceral worry. So what, then...?
With one last pace, he turns back to her again, and when he looks at her the distance between them feels both impossibly vast while at the same time not enough. He wants to go to her, but- not yet. Still, not yet. He needs to know.]
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Someone told you that? [He doesn't need to wait for an answer; the look on her face is enough, an earnest confession of guilt over a warning not heeded. It wouldn't be like her to lie in order to blame someone else for stirring up her insecurities.] A month... and you kept quiet this whole time.
[He turns then, rubbing at his forehead, and goes back to pacing for a long moment. She forgot, because she was happy- that she's some kind of weapon, that she's not human, that she's meant to cause harm. She remembered all of that, because she was asked not to hurt him. She remembered that he's going to die. And she's just- pretended that everything's been okay, that it hasn't bothered her, like that day in the shower when he'd forgotten to ask. And now she worries that any of that matters, because- what, she's got human competition now, in a contest no one else knows they're in, when it's already meant to be over because she won.
It's- it's a lot, and not something easily fixed. He can't just throw his hands up and go, "it's fine! you won't hurt me!" when they both know she just did. And he can't tell her not to be afraid of doing so again, because emotions don't work like that. He's had enough people tell him to get over it in his lifetime to know that's not how you resolve such a visceral worry. So what, then...?
With one last pace, he turns back to her again, and when he looks at her the distance between them feels both impossibly vast while at the same time not enough. He wants to go to her, but- not yet. Still, not yet. He needs to know.]
Do you know what hurt the most? The worst of it?