He could see the ripple of feathers out of the corner of his eye, the protective impulse that ran through this fierce and fragile Shield, and he bit back a wince. She asked him questions but then didn't like his answers, and he didn't know what to do or say, anymore. Honesty only got him in trouble. Trying to be strong for her only made her angry. He would not blame her for what had come between them, not when he was the older one, the one who should have known better from the start.
Perhaps he should go for now, let her calm down, and come back tomorrow to try again? Isuma turned to look up at him with golden eyes that held a sad sheen, one he felt reflected in their bond, and he tried to smile for her, reaching out to the bed to brush his fingers over a blue-tipped feather. He was braced for Amalia to snap, anger and ire in his inability to measure up to what she expected of him flowing out in a cascade of vitriol he could not blame her for, not when she was in this place she hated because he had failed to protect her.
He wasn't so ready for the raw honesty that poured out instead, a break in the painfully polite conversation they'd been trying to hold until then. He looked up, startled, meeting her eyes more out of surprise than intention and he felt his throat grow tight at her apologies and requests. The joke, especially, struck home, a pang of guilt and hope in equal measure as he looked away, blinking as he pretended to examine her room more closely. "Not all," he said, finally slanting a glance back to the woman in the bed when he was sure his eyes wouldn't betray him. "But there are days - more often than not - when it feels like it is. I am not..." He trailed off, for once without the words he always seemed to have so near at hand, and he was forced to start again. "I have tried to let it go since coming here, Ama, but... guilt is something that has shaped me for a very long time. I don't think I would even know who I am or how to be without it." He found a smile, though it was a said, wounded thing - a wound far deeper and older than any the baker had caused. "And I am sorry that I treated you like a child. I never meant to. I... am not used to letting myself care for people. Coming here, meeting Rory, and you, and so many others that I let get close... and then losing so many..." He didn't realize he'd curled his hands into fists, or the tremors that went through them as he held himself rigid in the chair. "I was so afraid of losing you that I became overprotective, and didn't even realize I was driving you away until too late. And then, when I did realize I... I had no idea how to fix things. You and Rory are the two things in my life I don't want to run away from ever again, but I can't seem to find the right words to mend what has become so broken between us."
You don't need to be sorry for being human, he thought in the silence of the bond, where words were mixed with feelings of sorrow and love, regret and support. I never meant to force you to be strong. I wanted to be someone you could rely on, not to add to your burdens.
Perhaps he should go for now, let her calm down, and come back tomorrow to try again? Isuma turned to look up at him with golden eyes that held a sad sheen, one he felt reflected in their bond, and he tried to smile for her, reaching out to the bed to brush his fingers over a blue-tipped feather. He was braced for Amalia to snap, anger and ire in his inability to measure up to what she expected of him flowing out in a cascade of vitriol he could not blame her for, not when she was in this place she hated because he had failed to protect her.
He wasn't so ready for the raw honesty that poured out instead, a break in the painfully polite conversation they'd been trying to hold until then. He looked up, startled, meeting her eyes more out of surprise than intention and he felt his throat grow tight at her apologies and requests. The joke, especially, struck home, a pang of guilt and hope in equal measure as he looked away, blinking as he pretended to examine her room more closely. "Not all," he said, finally slanting a glance back to the woman in the bed when he was sure his eyes wouldn't betray him. "But there are days - more often than not - when it feels like it is. I am not..." He trailed off, for once without the words he always seemed to have so near at hand, and he was forced to start again. "I have tried to let it go since coming here, Ama, but... guilt is something that has shaped me for a very long time. I don't think I would even know who I am or how to be without it." He found a smile, though it was a said, wounded thing - a wound far deeper and older than any the baker had caused. "And I am sorry that I treated you like a child. I never meant to. I... am not used to letting myself care for people. Coming here, meeting Rory, and you, and so many others that I let get close... and then losing so many..." He didn't realize he'd curled his hands into fists, or the tremors that went through them as he held himself rigid in the chair. "I was so afraid of losing you that I became overprotective, and didn't even realize I was driving you away until too late. And then, when I did realize I... I had no idea how to fix things. You and Rory are the two things in my life I don't want to run away from ever again, but I can't seem to find the right words to mend what has become so broken between us."
You don't need to be sorry for being human, he thought in the silence of the bond, where words were mixed with feelings of sorrow and love, regret and support. I never meant to force you to be strong. I wanted to be someone you could rely on, not to add to your burdens.
