When enemies are at your door, I'll carry you way from war
Her insistence on the matter of gratitude could almost make him roll his eyes, almost, if not for the fact he's still creasing under her touch, concern wrinkling in deeper with each minute she remains choked up. Whenever she has become a force of her own tide before, explanation and tears have rushed out hand in hand, the story swept up in the flood of Flora's feelings. This feels almost intentionally held back. This, feels like something too heavy to float, and so it continues to sink inside her. He doesn't like it one bit. They have always talked, even if it sucked. Especially when it sucked. So what is she holding onto now?
As they descend the stairs, an awkward procession given the small quarters and the lack of desire in either of them to let go, the retreating degrees are blissfully felt. He glances over the tucked in shape of Flora in search of the little dragon, quietly beseeching some kind of answer, even if it's just a warning. Anything that might prepare him for what's lodged itself so firmly through her. His jaw pinches in as he bears down on the name of the Captain, unsurprised that he's involved somehow.
He finally releases her to the seat, and the way she curls in on herself is so reminiscent of the aftermath of Dahlia that his gaze can't help but drift to the location of the scars, well mapped on her body by now even if clothing covers them. He half suspects to see blood seeping through, but there's no obvious stain. Loath to leave her in such a state, he moves quickly to gather what meager aid he can. The Sugartide has become something of a second home to him now, so he moves with a soldier's efficiency through the spaces, the action somewhere to place the gnaw of his worry, teeth set into stride instead of thought.
He deposits the cup of water on the table, the glass clicking faint and water shifting in near-threat of a spill. An eye roller is also set down, to help with the puffiness of her tears, and the tissues are deposited too, arranged almost like offerings to a god. He's not sure who he's praying to here, support maybe, understanding he hopes.
What she says next chills him on the spot, keeping him rooted instead of immediately sliding in beside her as he'd been intending. Although he's beginning to think he should be sitting for whatever this news is, he's stock still, leaning in on each ragged exhale like it might be the one that spares him. "O-okay," he drops his own voice to something low, unintentionally mirroring her as the moment starts to tighten. His mind wheels, imagining every chaotic possibility that could make her this upset and this afraid to say it. His hands flex at his sides, subconsciously trying to find something steady to grip. "Is it me?" Cold doubt begins to trickle in. "Would it be easier...if I turn around? Or, put on a wig or something and became, I dunno, Kathy?" A weak smile flashes, offering the joke up like a distraction, like a grounding opportunity for some reassurance this tide doesn't mean to drown them.
As they descend the stairs, an awkward procession given the small quarters and the lack of desire in either of them to let go, the retreating degrees are blissfully felt. He glances over the tucked in shape of Flora in search of the little dragon, quietly beseeching some kind of answer, even if it's just a warning. Anything that might prepare him for what's lodged itself so firmly through her. His jaw pinches in as he bears down on the name of the Captain, unsurprised that he's involved somehow.
He finally releases her to the seat, and the way she curls in on herself is so reminiscent of the aftermath of Dahlia that his gaze can't help but drift to the location of the scars, well mapped on her body by now even if clothing covers them. He half suspects to see blood seeping through, but there's no obvious stain. Loath to leave her in such a state, he moves quickly to gather what meager aid he can. The Sugartide has become something of a second home to him now, so he moves with a soldier's efficiency through the spaces, the action somewhere to place the gnaw of his worry, teeth set into stride instead of thought.
He deposits the cup of water on the table, the glass clicking faint and water shifting in near-threat of a spill. An eye roller is also set down, to help with the puffiness of her tears, and the tissues are deposited too, arranged almost like offerings to a god. He's not sure who he's praying to here, support maybe, understanding he hopes.
What she says next chills him on the spot, keeping him rooted instead of immediately sliding in beside her as he'd been intending. Although he's beginning to think he should be sitting for whatever this news is, he's stock still, leaning in on each ragged exhale like it might be the one that spares him. "O-okay," he drops his own voice to something low, unintentionally mirroring her as the moment starts to tighten. His mind wheels, imagining every chaotic possibility that could make her this upset and this afraid to say it. His hands flex at his sides, subconsciously trying to find something steady to grip. "Is it me?" Cold doubt begins to trickle in. "Would it be easier...if I turn around? Or, put on a wig or something and became, I dunno, Kathy?" A weak smile flashes, offering the joke up like a distraction, like a grounding opportunity for some reassurance this tide doesn't mean to drown them.
Kaisel
If you need help, I'll shut down the city lights
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
