It was strange, really, how long it took for him to register Wessex standing there—she was in the strange borderland between his doorstep and the world beyond, like someone who hadn't quite made up their mind about whether to knock or not. (Unlike other things, wearing the voice of your sister.) Rory's blue eyes slowly sharpened to the play of light and dark, the sunset and the fire behind him; part of him wanted to ask her why she was here, because what was worth coming out here for?
He was not bitter.
He did not feel abandoned.
He had just forgotten that he had worth.
Really, it was far too tempting to stay in his dazed state, to not quite acknowledge the fact that she was there, now, but like a frozen limb brought too close to warmth he had begun to thaw, and oh, it hurt—
Why did she always find him like this?
(It said much, that she kept finding him at all.) Oh, Wessex, headstrong, ambitious Wessex, the lioness in the night, she who never backed down, she who simply forged ahead—time and time again she came back for him, the one who couldn't keep up, the one who slipped into shadow.
He barely registered the awkward edges of her smile, the (perhaps) uncertainty in the wave: he only registered the fact that she was there, again. Warm tears pricked and pooled the corners of his eyes, brought on by the ache of thawing emotion, and without thinking about it he stepped forward, folding his arms around her, because—because he needed it, needed to feel that she was real,
maybe,
needed to be held.
He was not bitter.
He did not feel abandoned.
He had just forgotten that he had worth.
Really, it was far too tempting to stay in his dazed state, to not quite acknowledge the fact that she was there, now, but like a frozen limb brought too close to warmth he had begun to thaw, and oh, it hurt—
Why did she always find him like this?
(It said much, that she kept finding him at all.) Oh, Wessex, headstrong, ambitious Wessex, the lioness in the night, she who never backed down, she who simply forged ahead—time and time again she came back for him, the one who couldn't keep up, the one who slipped into shadow.
He barely registered the awkward edges of her smile, the (perhaps) uncertainty in the wave: he only registered the fact that she was there, again. Warm tears pricked and pooled the corners of his eyes, brought on by the ache of thawing emotion, and without thinking about it he stepped forward, folding his arms around her, because—because he needed it, needed to feel that she was real,
maybe,
needed to be held.
