you look like my next mistake
"I didn't make up an argument." Scowling, Flora shakes her head. "I tried to have an actual conversation with you—about something pretty fucking important, I might add—and you said I was being a coward and that you were just going to go off and do whatever and I couldn't do shit about it.You don't get to be like that when you're in a relationship with someone. You don't get to casually act like you can forfeit your life and tell me I don't get to have a say in it." Tears bite at the back of her eyes, but it's the thought of Jack dying—again—that has her gasping for breath.
As he continues, the Doubletake stares at him, her breath catching sharp in her chest as the words hit—as his laugh slices through her and gods but she feels so fucking small and foolish. "What?" She staggers back, as if he’d physically struck her—as if the words have weight, pressing against her ribs until she can’t breathe around them.
Her stomach lurches, a sick, twisting thing, because what the fuck? She’d given him everything. Everything. From the moment she was old enough to have a crush on him, she’d wanted him. And when it became real, when she’d finally had him, she’d tucked her feelings away, held them tight against her ribs, never forcing them on him, never making him feel like he had to say something he didn’t mean even when the words I love you rattled around so hard inside of her chest she felt as though she could feel herself bruising from the inside out. She'd kept his secrets even when she hadn't asked for them, and had taken every shitty little breadcrumb of affection he gave and acted like it was enough.
And now, because she’s angry, because she has the audacity to want a kernel of accountability for him, because she doesn’t want to watch him walk himself into an early grave, she’s the cold one?
She shakes her head, breath hitching, nails biting into her palms. "You want to stand here and tell me I don’t want to be with you?" Her laugh is bitter, disbelieving, as his had been. "You can go fuck yourself, Jack. You have no idea what it means to actually love someone."
As he continues, the Doubletake stares at him, her breath catching sharp in her chest as the words hit—as his laugh slices through her and gods but she feels so fucking small and foolish. "What?" She staggers back, as if he’d physically struck her—as if the words have weight, pressing against her ribs until she can’t breathe around them.
Her stomach lurches, a sick, twisting thing, because what the fuck? She’d given him everything. Everything. From the moment she was old enough to have a crush on him, she’d wanted him. And when it became real, when she’d finally had him, she’d tucked her feelings away, held them tight against her ribs, never forcing them on him, never making him feel like he had to say something he didn’t mean even when the words I love you rattled around so hard inside of her chest she felt as though she could feel herself bruising from the inside out. She'd kept his secrets even when she hadn't asked for them, and had taken every shitty little breadcrumb of affection he gave and acted like it was enough.
And now, because she’s angry, because she has the audacity to want a kernel of accountability for him, because she doesn’t want to watch him walk himself into an early grave, she’s the cold one?
She shakes her head, breath hitching, nails biting into her palms. "You want to stand here and tell me I don’t want to be with you?" Her laugh is bitter, disbelieving, as his had been. "You can go fuck yourself, Jack. You have no idea what it means to actually love someone."
