[ from the moment they'd met, marta had always been one of the easier people to read, whether it's because her nerves could so often be interpreted in the anxious twist of her lips or the timid curl of her fingers upon her lap, or even the way she'd had no experience with filtering her thoughts away, letting the honesty slip unchallenged between exchanges of dialogue. the fact that she can't apparently even lie at all makes her more of an open book, even if she's never given much of an impression that she'd ever intended to be all too manipulative in the first place anyway.
but right now, there's another fall of the veil, cracks in the way he's often seen her try to hold herself, like she's consistently worked hard at being strong, at keeping her walls sturdy. it shatters with her sob, with the confession of what's shaken her most, like maybe the bandits out there hadn't been the thing to scare her most tonight.
his fingers slow even as they continue to gently graze the lightening crimson trail along her face, wiping away the evidence of the attack to show the flush skin beneath, though his eyes are looking instead to her, to the eyes that don't hide away anything at all, soaked up in a kind of vulnerability that he so often forces to be swallowed down himself. ]
I know. [ his voice is barely even a whisper, a soft breath of understanding as his movements still, gaze lingering on her.
it's ... hard. being the one left behind. he remembers her words, when he'd confessed his nightmares, and right now, it's as if she's confessing her own. ]
It's never going to be fair. When you're willing to do what it takes to protect people, but then they beat you to it. And ... that's why a lot of us are here in the first place, right?
[ harlan, she says, and he knows she spoke of a friend she's lost, an obvious weight heavy on her shoulders that it's easy to stitch together why she might be here in the first place, pushing as hard as she can even when the fear vibrates across her shaking skin. ]
You went out there to help. Andy was doing the same. I've seen her take some tough hits and get right back up. I can tell you that, when it comes to her, it wouldn't have made a difference if you were there or not; she'd have still charged right in. But what you're doing here, Marta, it's not a waste.
[ he reaches for a hand upon her lap, larger calloused fingers curling beneath smaller ones, gentle in their touch with a rare sense of care that isn't often taken with everything else he does. but he guides the cloth down to brush it over her blood-stained skin, damp fabric gliding over her knuckles and wiping soft across her fingertips. ]
We need people like you. The ones that aren't tainted by the violence, the ones that are here to heal and not hurt, the ones that still know what it means to be good. [ without intention, his fingertips graze light against her palm. ] The ones that remind the rest of us ... the kind of people worth saving.
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but right now, there's another fall of the veil, cracks in the way he's often seen her try to hold herself, like she's consistently worked hard at being strong, at keeping her walls sturdy. it shatters with her sob, with the confession of what's shaken her most, like maybe the bandits out there hadn't been the thing to scare her most tonight.
his fingers slow even as they continue to gently graze the lightening crimson trail along her face, wiping away the evidence of the attack to show the flush skin beneath, though his eyes are looking instead to her, to the eyes that don't hide away anything at all, soaked up in a kind of vulnerability that he so often forces to be swallowed down himself. ]
I know. [ his voice is barely even a whisper, a soft breath of understanding as his movements still, gaze lingering on her.
it's ... hard. being the one left behind. he remembers her words, when he'd confessed his nightmares, and right now, it's as if she's confessing her own. ]
It's never going to be fair. When you're willing to do what it takes to protect people, but then they beat you to it. And ... that's why a lot of us are here in the first place, right?
[ harlan, she says, and he knows she spoke of a friend she's lost, an obvious weight heavy on her shoulders that it's easy to stitch together why she might be here in the first place, pushing as hard as she can even when the fear vibrates across her shaking skin. ]
You went out there to help. Andy was doing the same. I've seen her take some tough hits and get right back up. I can tell you that, when it comes to her, it wouldn't have made a difference if you were there or not; she'd have still charged right in. But what you're doing here, Marta, it's not a waste.
[ he reaches for a hand upon her lap, larger calloused fingers curling beneath smaller ones, gentle in their touch with a rare sense of care that isn't often taken with everything else he does. but he guides the cloth down to brush it over her blood-stained skin, damp fabric gliding over her knuckles and wiping soft across her fingertips. ]
We need people like you. The ones that aren't tainted by the violence, the ones that are here to heal and not hurt, the ones that still know what it means to be good. [ without intention, his fingertips graze light against her palm. ] The ones that remind the rest of us ... the kind of people worth saving.