09-25-2018, 08:04 PM
He went quiet. She didn't tread on those thoughts, just pulled her attention away. The sarcasm of her reply had been all rusted edges, and the volatility of her mood now was like a landmine. Easy enough to navigate, if you knew how. She had all day to shift through her thoughts and pack them neatly away, but the road forward had been the consideration to occupy most of her time. Focus carved her a space away from paltry emotions. She wasn't given to expressive displays even without a generous blanket of apathy as a buffer.
"We haven't spoken in five years. I don't know what changed his mind, and I'm not sure I care." Yesterday emotion clogged the word dad like an ugly scar. Today there was nothing; just a flat wall of stubborn spite and refusal to even speak his name. The media painted her a daughter in the image of her father after the fire; not without due cause, of course, though Natalie's only crime at the time was trying to cushion that devastating fall. Despite what he'd done. But the tar stuck. She'd never climbed out of that shadow.
Yesterday she'd wanted to explain. But today she wasn't in the mood to exonerate herself. Restlessness was beginning to hum through her bones, the heft of silence driving it deep. She didn't savour goodbyes, and the tension pushed pins beneath her heels; urged her to do something to end it quickly and save either of them the awkwardness. She was cold enough for that, even if he wasn't. At least she thought she was.
She stood, a thousand miles away despite the distance he bridged. Or maybe just to spite it. But the arc of his arm gave her pause. Her weight fell against the edge of the table, arms folded, and her gaze followed the wallet's trail. Relief watched it sink. She couldn't decide if the gesture was profound or simply stupid, though of course Jay did not know the litany of silent messages that preceded whatever desperation urged her father to break into the apartment in Moscow. Which also made it somewhat futile, though she wasn't going to share that.
"You're terribly dramatic, did anyone ever tell you that?"
She didn't meet his eye. Had no intention of doing so. Somewhere deep her emotions flared, unsure what to make of it, but he'd already turned with an open palm and words that stilled the search for an answer. Surprise fazed her expression like ripples in still water, the first indication that something flesh and blood still dwelt beneath all that ice. The plea dropped heavy as an iron weight, dragging down on those chains around her heart in a way that made her chest lurch. Her brows lowered, as insulted as he had been when she'd suggested he had been paid to pull her out of the tunnels.
She realised then that he thought she had been leaving, as if any of this could be so easily washed away. As if she would wish to wash any of it away.
Reaction burst like a supernova, banked by iron control that nonetheless shuddered her to contrary action. Her gaze drew up, making the same tireless mistake over and over. She should walk away, like any sane person. Obligation wasn't worth this dance on broken glass. Only that was a lie grown threadbare, and it wasn't obligation keeping her rooted.
She took his hand, no hesitation or coy games this time, though neither did she shift from her perch against the picnic table. A twist brought his knuckles up to face the sky. She didn't remember him punching the wall, but she'd seen the evidence of it this morning. An easy detail to brush aside when it did not quite fit the narrative she chose to pour like acid into her own wounds. Confronted with the evidence now, she didn't know what to think, reluctant to wade through shadowy memory seeking clues for fear of what else she might discover. Her thumb swept the sore peaks and valleys of his skin, both firm and gentle. A musician's touch, fond as a caress of ivory keys. Though his was a warmth more intoxicating. Probably to her ruin.
"Why?" It came out rawer than she'd meant it. Not a question of why she should go, but a muddy question of bruised knuckles and slammed doors. Of Anna Marie and her father's wallet. An abject wall of silence surrounded crossed swords, misunderstanding time and again, but the demanding edge to her now would not be turned aside. She followed him across the ocean on wings of trust; a folly she was not particularly given to, though it had seemed natural at the time. No regret marred that decision, just as no regret marred the answer she knew she would give whether he chose to answer honestly or not. Though it was brutal truth her pale gaze beseeched, and they both knew he was a shit liar.
"We haven't spoken in five years. I don't know what changed his mind, and I'm not sure I care." Yesterday emotion clogged the word dad like an ugly scar. Today there was nothing; just a flat wall of stubborn spite and refusal to even speak his name. The media painted her a daughter in the image of her father after the fire; not without due cause, of course, though Natalie's only crime at the time was trying to cushion that devastating fall. Despite what he'd done. But the tar stuck. She'd never climbed out of that shadow.
Yesterday she'd wanted to explain. But today she wasn't in the mood to exonerate herself. Restlessness was beginning to hum through her bones, the heft of silence driving it deep. She didn't savour goodbyes, and the tension pushed pins beneath her heels; urged her to do something to end it quickly and save either of them the awkwardness. She was cold enough for that, even if he wasn't. At least she thought she was.
She stood, a thousand miles away despite the distance he bridged. Or maybe just to spite it. But the arc of his arm gave her pause. Her weight fell against the edge of the table, arms folded, and her gaze followed the wallet's trail. Relief watched it sink. She couldn't decide if the gesture was profound or simply stupid, though of course Jay did not know the litany of silent messages that preceded whatever desperation urged her father to break into the apartment in Moscow. Which also made it somewhat futile, though she wasn't going to share that.
"You're terribly dramatic, did anyone ever tell you that?"
She didn't meet his eye. Had no intention of doing so. Somewhere deep her emotions flared, unsure what to make of it, but he'd already turned with an open palm and words that stilled the search for an answer. Surprise fazed her expression like ripples in still water, the first indication that something flesh and blood still dwelt beneath all that ice. The plea dropped heavy as an iron weight, dragging down on those chains around her heart in a way that made her chest lurch. Her brows lowered, as insulted as he had been when she'd suggested he had been paid to pull her out of the tunnels.
She realised then that he thought she had been leaving, as if any of this could be so easily washed away. As if she would wish to wash any of it away.
Reaction burst like a supernova, banked by iron control that nonetheless shuddered her to contrary action. Her gaze drew up, making the same tireless mistake over and over. She should walk away, like any sane person. Obligation wasn't worth this dance on broken glass. Only that was a lie grown threadbare, and it wasn't obligation keeping her rooted.
She took his hand, no hesitation or coy games this time, though neither did she shift from her perch against the picnic table. A twist brought his knuckles up to face the sky. She didn't remember him punching the wall, but she'd seen the evidence of it this morning. An easy detail to brush aside when it did not quite fit the narrative she chose to pour like acid into her own wounds. Confronted with the evidence now, she didn't know what to think, reluctant to wade through shadowy memory seeking clues for fear of what else she might discover. Her thumb swept the sore peaks and valleys of his skin, both firm and gentle. A musician's touch, fond as a caress of ivory keys. Though his was a warmth more intoxicating. Probably to her ruin.
"Why?" It came out rawer than she'd meant it. Not a question of why she should go, but a muddy question of bruised knuckles and slammed doors. Of Anna Marie and her father's wallet. An abject wall of silence surrounded crossed swords, misunderstanding time and again, but the demanding edge to her now would not be turned aside. She followed him across the ocean on wings of trust; a folly she was not particularly given to, though it had seemed natural at the time. No regret marred that decision, just as no regret marred the answer she knew she would give whether he chose to answer honestly or not. Though it was brutal truth her pale gaze beseeched, and they both knew he was a shit liar.