[ for him, it isn't actually a question as to whether or not he's enough; he knows that he isn't, that any chance of him being worthy of any semblance of happiness died away in the ashes at stronghold, amongst the remnants of the only people he ever truly considered to be family, amongst all that remains of quellcrest falconer, the only woman who ever actually saw him as something more than the ctac soldier, than the envoy, than the killer.
what he'd had with clara was a mere mishap, a span of several weeks where he believed the chance wasn't truly over, a few passing moments of genuine belief for more, until reality had come crashing down with the reminder that everything had been a fleeting fantasy of what he wanted but not of what actually is. keeping away from clara for such a selfish purpose, it's all he has left of that temporary dream, like there's a sliver of himself that still thinks there's a chance for him — even if he knows it won't matter once his memories continue to disappear one at a time. naive and childish, but he has little else left of himself through this.
it's why he's genuinely surprised when marta responds to him, not only with words, but with honest comfort. the touch of her fingers upon his own steal away the fullness of his attention, no possibility of looking away now as his gaze drifts back to her, the bottle in his lap forgotten as he takes in her words — you're allowed to save yourself too.
being told he and clara don't fit together based on the things they want isn't a surprise (even more true with the way he's been handling certain things, with hiding the truth about the change to his deal, with knowing it won't at all be what she wants), but he doesn't know what to do with the attention in what it means to heal him through this ("i'm not here to save anyone.""not even yourself?"). he'd decided on saving clara, something he still doesn't regret even if he wants to maintain a physical distance with her, but him — he hasn't been making bets on being saved.
her fingers are warm upon his own, and he hates that the need is still there, the need for connection, to be seen by someone, to not be forgotten the way that he'll soon forget everything else. his knuckles nudge against her fingertips, like he's almost tempted to lace them as he catches her eyes, but he holds back, settled with a light caress and quiet again for a lasting moment before finding his voice again. ]
Am I? [ he asks quietly, like question is almost genuine towards her, even if he already has his own answer. ] I don't ... I don't know what you see when you look at me. But it's not — I'm not worth — [ he swallows. ] I can't actually be saved, Marta.
no subject
what he'd had with clara was a mere mishap, a span of several weeks where he believed the chance wasn't truly over, a few passing moments of genuine belief for more, until reality had come crashing down with the reminder that everything had been a fleeting fantasy of what he wanted but not of what actually is. keeping away from clara for such a selfish purpose, it's all he has left of that temporary dream, like there's a sliver of himself that still thinks there's a chance for him — even if he knows it won't matter once his memories continue to disappear one at a time. naive and childish, but he has little else left of himself through this.
it's why he's genuinely surprised when marta responds to him, not only with words, but with honest comfort. the touch of her fingers upon his own steal away the fullness of his attention, no possibility of looking away now as his gaze drifts back to her, the bottle in his lap forgotten as he takes in her words — you're allowed to save yourself too.
being told he and clara don't fit together based on the things they want isn't a surprise (even more true with the way he's been handling certain things, with hiding the truth about the change to his deal, with knowing it won't at all be what she wants), but he doesn't know what to do with the attention in what it means to heal him through this ("i'm not here to save anyone." "not even yourself?"). he'd decided on saving clara, something he still doesn't regret even if he wants to maintain a physical distance with her, but him — he hasn't been making bets on being saved.
her fingers are warm upon his own, and he hates that the need is still there, the need for connection, to be seen by someone, to not be forgotten the way that he'll soon forget everything else. his knuckles nudge against her fingertips, like he's almost tempted to lace them as he catches her eyes, but he holds back, settled with a light caress and quiet again for a lasting moment before finding his voice again. ]
Am I? [ he asks quietly, like question is almost genuine towards her, even if he already has his own answer. ] I don't ... I don't know what you see when you look at me. But it's not — I'm not worth — [ he swallows. ] I can't actually be saved, Marta.