i'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
"You don't tell me anything," she snaps, the words sharp as broken coral, too quiet to carry but still flung with all the force of someone who's bleeding underneath. "So no—you're right. I don’t know a damn thing, because you never fucking tell me anything, Jack. At least not with words that haven't been widdled down to nothing."
Her voice hisses out between clenched teeth, low enough that only he can hear it, not just because she doesn’t want the crew to know that they're fighting (though gods, they probably expect it by now). "Have you ever just shut the fuck up and actually listened to the things you say? Not the ones wrapped in all the shit you know, or the things I’m thinking but just...the words. The actual words." Her eyes flash, bright and wet. "Because that’s all I’ve got to go on." I don’t get to hear your thoughts and I swear to god it's like you fucking forget that.
And then he’s reaching for her, and her thoughts sparkle and shatter in the same breath, bursting bright behind her eyes before crumbling like sugar glass beneath a heel. His fingers are cold—not magic-cold but blood-starved, worn-out, end-of-his-rope cold—and the feel of them on her arm is like frostbite, sudden and searing, and she knows it’ll hurt more the second he lets go. Which he does, too soon and not soon enough, the ghost of his touch leaving something bruised and burning behind.
But even so, even still, she doesn’t move. She sways a little, caught in the riptide of it, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. You say shitty things to me a lot more than nice ones," she murmurs, voice rough with the effort it takes to keep it level. "So yeah, those are the ones that tend to stick."
And then, whether she wants them to or not, tears burn their way forward—bright and sharp, stinging at the corners of her eyes and catching on her lashes. Her voice drops even lower, barely a thread of sound now, stretched thin and frayed. "And if the things you meant for me to listen to were the ones about how you’d never leave me—about how you loved me—" Her breath shudders in and her chin tips up, defiant even in her heartbreak.
"Me believing in those things is why this is all hurts so fucking much." Because not only had he left, but he'd turned I love you, into we're nothing to each other pretty fucking fast.
Her voice hisses out between clenched teeth, low enough that only he can hear it, not just because she doesn’t want the crew to know that they're fighting (though gods, they probably expect it by now). "Have you ever just shut the fuck up and actually listened to the things you say? Not the ones wrapped in all the shit you know, or the things I’m thinking but just...the words. The actual words." Her eyes flash, bright and wet. "Because that’s all I’ve got to go on." I don’t get to hear your thoughts and I swear to god it's like you fucking forget that.
And then he’s reaching for her, and her thoughts sparkle and shatter in the same breath, bursting bright behind her eyes before crumbling like sugar glass beneath a heel. His fingers are cold—not magic-cold but blood-starved, worn-out, end-of-his-rope cold—and the feel of them on her arm is like frostbite, sudden and searing, and she knows it’ll hurt more the second he lets go. Which he does, too soon and not soon enough, the ghost of his touch leaving something bruised and burning behind.
But even so, even still, she doesn’t move. She sways a little, caught in the riptide of it, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. You say shitty things to me a lot more than nice ones," she murmurs, voice rough with the effort it takes to keep it level. "So yeah, those are the ones that tend to stick."
And then, whether she wants them to or not, tears burn their way forward—bright and sharp, stinging at the corners of her eyes and catching on her lashes. Her voice drops even lower, barely a thread of sound now, stretched thin and frayed. "And if the things you meant for me to listen to were the ones about how you’d never leave me—about how you loved me—" Her breath shudders in and her chin tips up, defiant even in her heartbreak.
"Me believing in those things is why this is all hurts so fucking much." Because not only had he left, but he'd turned I love you, into we're nothing to each other pretty fucking fast.
