I'll keep breaking my own heart, finding ways to make it out
I'm still not what I wanna be, what more do you want from me?
I'm still not what I wanna be, what more do you want from me?
She finds him sitting at the table. Elbows braced on the top, one hand loosely twirling the stem of a flower and the other fisted against his mouth, hiding the drawn nature of his lips. Eyes far away and unblinking. The sky darkened into evening beyond the windowpanes, leaving the room lit by the warm glow of firelight.
Harper normally never stops moving. Sitting still had to be mercilessly trained into him - or perhaps motion had to be trained out - because it was too unfamiliar a state of being. His motionless figure, more than anything, is the signal that something is wrong.
When Maeve walks through the doorway Harper slowly unfurls, placing the flower exactly perpendicular, careful not to ruin any of the delicate petals. His hands find each other on top of the table, but his eyes remain on the gift instead of the slowly paling skin of his knuckles. “I didn’t mean to open your personal mail,” he starts. Measured, careful to the point of tonelessness. “When I saw it was from Halo’s Advisor I thought it was business.” Taking a deep breath he squeezes his own hands together, eyes dropping that last inch to stare silently at the way the multitude of scars stand out as his tan skin bleeds white. His mouth drops, a shadow passing over his eyes for a brief second before it’s gone; then his gaze flicks, just barely in the corner, to Maeve. Enough not to see her plainly. “We should talk.”
Harper normally never stops moving. Sitting still had to be mercilessly trained into him - or perhaps motion had to be trained out - because it was too unfamiliar a state of being. His motionless figure, more than anything, is the signal that something is wrong.
When Maeve walks through the doorway Harper slowly unfurls, placing the flower exactly perpendicular, careful not to ruin any of the delicate petals. His hands find each other on top of the table, but his eyes remain on the gift instead of the slowly paling skin of his knuckles. “I didn’t mean to open your personal mail,” he starts. Measured, careful to the point of tonelessness. “When I saw it was from Halo’s Advisor I thought it was business.” Taking a deep breath he squeezes his own hands together, eyes dropping that last inch to stare silently at the way the multitude of scars stand out as his tan skin bleeds white. His mouth drops, a shadow passing over his eyes for a brief second before it’s gone; then his gaze flicks, just barely in the corner, to Maeve. Enough not to see her plainly. “We should talk.”
