[It takes her a second, but then she realizes what he's asking for, and hands the bottle over.
She also realizes she needs to explain.]
Someone faked my death. It was kind of a clusterfuck, but, um, I guess you saw-- [She gestures at herself, at the scars hidden under her clothes. He must have seen them, when she in that hospital gown.] She thought I was mocking my own memory. [a beat] Kinda feels true, sometimes.
[She was-- Okay no she wasn't joking, but this is the same thing that happened with Atlas when she joked about being dead, isn't it?
Sometimes flippancy probably isn't appropriate, and she just looks really sorry for mentioning it.]
Doesn't matter. [She waves a hand as if to dismiss it, casually moving in to steal the bottle back, if he'll let her.] I don't even have it that bad, compared to a lot of people back home.
That's how we make ourselves feel better, right? Life sucks, but someone has it worse. Starving kids in Africa, and all that. [There's a pause as he leans back against his desk, expression twisted into a scowl.] Don't do that to yourself, Stephanie.
I went to Africa, while I was "dead". [Actual airquotes, even with the bottle in her hands, before she takes a long drink.] They were great kids, even the ones who'd been in the hospital for years. Used to drag me out to go swimming even though--
[Even though talking was a struggle, even though she flinched every time someone touched her, even though the sound of a car backfiring would make her scream.
She takes another swig.]
One of the first times I talked to my best friend, I told her about how daddy dearest used to lock me in the closet when he was mad. And she was, you know, appropriately upset on my behalf, but when I asked what her dad would do, she told me he'd shoot her.
[Why is she still talking?
She just looks at Saul, hands spread in a sort of what can you do? gesture.]
All I could do was laugh.
[Because how could she compare being shoved in a closet to being shot. And what else can she do but tell herself that someone has it worse.]
She turns her gaze away; feeling almost like an intruder on something she isn't meant to see, not when Saul looks like that.]
Sorry.
[She was just talking, because that's what she does sometimes, when she doesn't know what to do and when she's gotten on a roll. Stopping is hard, once she's gotten started on something.]
[So about that stupid thing he wanted to do earlier but didn't do, with the kissing her bruised jaw...
He still doesn't. What he does do, though, is advance carefully. She has room to bail, room to punch him, whatever. Frankly, he's expecting both — which is why, if she lets him get close enough to carry this out, he'll almost flinch when his lips touch her cheek.
It's a gentle kiss. Not quick, but not too drawn-out to suggest anything other than genuine care and concern.]
[She doesn't do anything, just goes still, watching him approach because she knows what he's planning to do and isn't sure how to react. If anything, it's a surprise - and a relief? - that he just kisses her cheek, enough that she actually remembers things like breathing are necessary.]
Saul. [There's something a little pleading in it, but not like when she was teasing him, it's more don't do this.
She can't-- doesn't know what to do, so she just lets out a shaky breath, copes the way she always does and tries to ignore how white her knuckles must be around the bottle.] You know, I don't think that's the typical response when people are jerks to you.
[Since that's basically what she's been, coming in here and dumping all her nonsense on him.]
[Saul remains close for a few seconds — close enough that she'll be able to feel his breath on her skin — and laughs quietly. Really, Steph? All those exes, and his reaction is surprising?
He backs away, then, with his hands at his sides and a little smile on his face.]
Being emotionally healthy is overrated. Which is probably why he's tempted to move in again, distract her, mumble that she needs to cut this shit out —
Instead:] It's a shame my bodyguard isn't here. You two would get along so well.
[For a moment, she doesn't say anything, just clenches and unclenches the hand that isn't holding the bottle, watching her skin pull over her knuckles.]
Maybe I should've been a bodyguard instead of a vigilante.
[She's just - saying things, not really thinking; there are too many other thoughts in her head to actually focus.]
[Speaking of the bottle, he'd like to take that from her before she either 1) finishes drinking it, 2) breaks it, or 3) breaks it on him. Nothing's out of the question, at this point.
The touch startles her enough that she actually looks at him, a little bit deer-in-headlights, gaze searching, before she looks away again. She opens her mouth to say yeah, but the word sticks in her throat, so she just wordlessly turns her wrist until the bottle is facing him, offering it without having moved her hand away from his.]
I got lucky, the fabric store was all out of orange.
[It's a reference he won't understand, not when he doesn't know her world, but she's having a little trouble stringing a coherent sentence together when he's distracting her.
From the way her gaze is so dutifully focused on a spot over his shoulder, you'd think there was something fascinating there, but she just can't bring herself to look at him or at where his thumb is pressed against her skin.]
Orange? [He wrinkles his nose.] That's not a good color for you.
[Not a good color for anyone, really.
And while she's pointedly not looking at him, he's doing the opposite — watching her expression carefully, thumb coming to rest briefly against her pulse point. Like he's checking it.]
[Any other time and she might've made a comment about how she could definitely make orange work, but that feels like dangerous territory.]
You shouldn't test people's pulses with your thumb. [The words are mumbled, an automatic response to what he's doing, because she's had odd facts drilled into her from her mom, Leslie, Bruce. As soon as she actually realizes she's said it, she swallows.] Um...
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
controlledvariable) wrote2014-02-02 07:59 pm
so I knew this tag was coming and had to get it out before dozing off
Good god, man.
Instead, he frowns, expression critical and a little disappointed.]
'cause you knew it'd make them feel better. That's great, Steph.
heather pls. also saul pls
She thought I was dead. My funeral would've only been a few months ago, for her.
[As if that even remotely explains the situation.
She's a bit too wrapped up in her own thoughts to realize how bad that all sounds.]
abloo
Saul makes a gimme motion at her. The bottle, Steph. Please.]
womp womp
She also realizes she needs to explain.]
Someone faked my death. It was kind of a clusterfuck, but, um, I guess you saw-- [She gestures at herself, at the scars hidden under her clothes. He must have seen them, when she in that hospital gown.] She thought I was mocking my own memory. [a beat] Kinda feels true, sometimes.
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It looks like he's about to pour himself a glass, then — nah. Screw it. From the bottle it is.]
Your life.
[Just.
That's all he can say.]
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[She sounds so dismissive about it all but it's pretty much make a joke of it or burst into tears at this point.
And the latter would be super embarrassing.]
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Why is she telling him all this?]
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Sometimes flippancy probably isn't appropriate, and she just looks really sorry for mentioning it.]
Doesn't matter. [She waves a hand as if to dismiss it, casually moving in to steal the bottle back, if he'll let her.] I don't even have it that bad, compared to a lot of people back home.
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[Another swig, and then he hands it back.]
That's how we make ourselves feel better, right? Life sucks, but someone has it worse. Starving kids in Africa, and all that. [There's a pause as he leans back against his desk, expression twisted into a scowl.] Don't do that to yourself, Stephanie.
cw: child abuse
[Even though talking was a struggle, even though she flinched every time someone touched her, even though the sound of a car backfiring would make her scream.
She takes another swig.]
One of the first times I talked to my best friend, I told her about how daddy dearest used to lock me in the closet when he was mad. And she was, you know, appropriately upset on my behalf, but when I asked what her dad would do, she told me he'd shoot her.
[Why is she still talking?
She just looks at Saul, hands spread in a sort of what can you do? gesture.]
All I could do was laugh.
[Because how could she compare being shoved in a closet to being shot. And what else can she do but tell herself that someone has it worse.]
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Yeah, this is as close to seeing Saul nearly cry as anyone will ever get. He really, really looks like he wants to. He doesn't, of course, but.
Stephanie.
What the fuck.
What the fuck, seriously.]
Why are you telling me this?
[It almost sounds like an accusation, the way he says it.]
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That's-- Oh.
She turns her gaze away; feeling almost like an intruder on something she isn't meant to see, not when Saul looks like that.]
Sorry.
[She was just talking, because that's what she does sometimes, when she doesn't know what to do and when she's gotten on a roll. Stopping is hard, once she's gotten started on something.]
I'm kind of a dick. Surprise.
[Haha
Ha.]
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He still doesn't. What he does do, though, is advance carefully. She has room to bail, room to punch him, whatever. Frankly, he's expecting both — which is why, if she lets him get close enough to carry this out, he'll almost flinch when his lips touch her cheek.
It's a gentle kiss. Not quick, but not too drawn-out to suggest anything other than genuine care and concern.]
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Saul. [There's something a little pleading in it, but not like when she was teasing him, it's more don't do this.
She can't-- doesn't know what to do, so she just lets out a shaky breath, copes the way she always does and tries to ignore how white her knuckles must be around the bottle.] You know, I don't think that's the typical response when people are jerks to you.
[Since that's basically what she's been, coming in here and dumping all her nonsense on him.]
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He backs away, then, with his hands at his sides and a little smile on his face.]
I know plenty of jerks. You're nothing like them.
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(The most worrying thing is the urge to kiss him, not when she knows how heartbroken Ellie would be.)
It's a relief when he moves away, even if she's also pretending a part of her isn't disappointed.]
That's 'cause you haven't seen me beat a guy senseless just 'cause he wouldn't tell me what I wanted to hear.
[Throwing facts like that at people as if they're weapons isn't a good way to cope, but she never pretended to be emotionally healthy.]
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Being emotionally healthy is overrated. Which is probably why he's tempted to move in again, distract her, mumble that she needs to cut this shit out —
Instead:] It's a shame my bodyguard isn't here. You two would get along so well.
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Maybe I should've been a bodyguard instead of a vigilante.
[She's just - saying things, not really thinking; there are too many other thoughts in her head to actually focus.]
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[Speaking of the bottle, he'd like to take that from her before she either 1) finishes drinking it, 2) breaks it, or 3) breaks it on him. Nothing's out of the question, at this point.
So.
He reaches out and touches her fingers.]
Can I have that back?
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[She would make a terrible supervillain.
The touch startles her enough that she actually looks at him, a little bit deer-in-headlights, gaze searching, before she looks away again. She opens her mouth to say yeah, but the word sticks in her throat, so she just wordlessly turns her wrist until the bottle is facing him, offering it without having moved her hand away from his.]
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[Saul hears that a lot: could've. People can be so much worse than they are — him included. But you make choices, right?
Just like he's chosen to draw circles against her wrist with his thumb instead of actually taking the damn bottle like he wanted to.
Or maybe this is what he wanted to really do.
He's not sure.]
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[It's a reference he won't understand, not when he doesn't know her world, but she's having a little trouble stringing a coherent sentence together when he's distracting her.
From the way her gaze is so dutifully focused on a spot over his shoulder, you'd think there was something fascinating there, but she just can't bring herself to look at him or at where his thumb is pressed against her skin.]
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[Not a good color for anyone, really.
And while she's pointedly not looking at him, he's doing the opposite — watching her expression carefully, thumb coming to rest briefly against her pulse point. Like he's checking it.]
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[Any other time and she might've made a comment about how she could definitely make orange work, but that feels like dangerous territory.]
You shouldn't test people's pulses with your thumb. [The words are mumbled, an automatic response to what he's doing, because she's had odd facts drilled into her from her mom, Leslie, Bruce. As soon as she actually realizes she's said it, she swallows.] Um...
[Nope. That's all she's got.]
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[It's a dangerous thing, when Saul is focused. Even her next comment doesn't throw him off. She caught him. So what?
The result is, instead, a slight tilt of his head.]
Why not?
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GO BACK TO SLEEP
I am trying ;A;
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