Jigano sat quietly as she teased him, caught between a rock and a hard place. Once, perhaps, he might have taken her suggestion for the wisdom it was. That was before she had been captured by the Fae, before Deimos had made it clear that he blamed Jigano for that - and Jigano had agreed whole-heartedly with the soon-to-be-General. Amalia was the one person he wouldn't raise that old specter with, not when it was only ever buried shallowly, and all too quick to rise when next she found herself in harm's way. It was idiotic male posturing between he and Deimos, he knew that, and Amalia wouldn't appreciate it...
But it wasn't the sort of thing one forgot, either. She was not the only one with flaws, after all.
"I... suppose I do," he agreed softly to her last point, remembering how often he walked away with little more than bruises when others were left dead or shattered in his wake. Survivor's guilt weighed on him more heavily than any other flavor - something he suspected Amalia understood, having lost her grandmother and mother.
At least she relaxed enough to stop holding herself together, something he took as a good sign, and he listened quietly to the voice in his head as Isuma shifted to nibble a lock of Amalia's hair that had come into range with the stretch.
I don't think I'm cut out to be anyone's father, he admitted with a touch of rueful humor atop the quiet honesty the statement rested on. But... I want to be your friend. He looked down at his hands, opening them to study the crescents his nails had dug into his palms and seeing only then that they were still trembling with the emotions - fear and hope, love, and despair - that shook him to his foundations as they spoke. What... what is it that you're afraid of? he asked gently, realizing how much of their relationship had been built on assumptions... how little on actually talking together.
But it wasn't the sort of thing one forgot, either. She was not the only one with flaws, after all.
"I... suppose I do," he agreed softly to her last point, remembering how often he walked away with little more than bruises when others were left dead or shattered in his wake. Survivor's guilt weighed on him more heavily than any other flavor - something he suspected Amalia understood, having lost her grandmother and mother.
At least she relaxed enough to stop holding herself together, something he took as a good sign, and he listened quietly to the voice in his head as Isuma shifted to nibble a lock of Amalia's hair that had come into range with the stretch.
I don't think I'm cut out to be anyone's father, he admitted with a touch of rueful humor atop the quiet honesty the statement rested on. But... I want to be your friend. He looked down at his hands, opening them to study the crescents his nails had dug into his palms and seeing only then that they were still trembling with the emotions - fear and hope, love, and despair - that shook him to his foundations as they spoke. What... what is it that you're afraid of? he asked gently, realizing how much of their relationship had been built on assumptions... how little on actually talking together.
