[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...
[She's pretty sure she's just operating on auto-pilot at this point, so the offer to talk about random medical trivia instead of thinking about everything else that's happening right now is a welcome distraction.]
You've got your own pulse in your thumb, so you can get them confused, end up measuring your own heart rate instead of the patient's.
[Patient.
Nevermind that is not the scenario here at all.
She really wants to take another drink, but that would require pulling her hand away from his.]
[No more talk about colors. He really doesn't like orange.
It looks like he's considering what she just said for a few moments, eyes drifting down toward her hand. And who knows what weird conclusion about biology he just came to, but the end result is this: he lifts her hand a little and bends, mouth meeting the skin of her wrist halfway.
[This is kind of beyond what she can pretend isn't happening, not when he's kissing her wrist, not when she's shifting her grip on the bottle to make that easier for him to do.
She wonders if Kara can hear how jumpy her heart-rate must be, and really hopes her best friend doesn't decide she needs rescuing.
Or maybe that would be better. If awkward.
God help her.]
You-- [What? She has literally no idea where to go with that sentence and just ends up biting her lip instead. It would be really great if she could just drink a little more.
[Saul is pretty convinced, by now, that this is the worst idea ever. Considering the circumstances, and the alcohol, and everything, this is stupid. Reckless. Maybe even a little mean.
But he can't —
No; revise. He doesn't want to stop. That's the problem. It's not that he can't, because he could. But Steph's always so cool, so on her game, so good at throwing him off his that this whole scenario has him giddy. Literally. Never mind all the emotional unloading happening, here.
He kisses up to where her sleeve begins, then pauses and glances up at her, eyebrows raised as if to say, Me?
[She can't ever tell Ellie about this. The realization makes her chest feel too tight, and it doesn't matter if they're not officially together, because this isn't the same as kissing Vanadi while things were still uncertain. This is something else entirely.]
Why are you doing this?
[Turning his own words back on him, albeit changed a little, and there's no accusation in her voice, she just sounds lost.]
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controlledvariable) wrote2014-02-02 07:59 pm
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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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[She's pretty sure she's just operating on auto-pilot at this point, so the offer to talk about random medical trivia instead of thinking about everything else that's happening right now is a welcome distraction.]
You've got your own pulse in your thumb, so you can get them confused, end up measuring your own heart rate instead of the patient's.
[Patient.
Nevermind that is not the scenario here at all.
She really wants to take another drink, but that would require pulling her hand away from his.]
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It looks like he's considering what she just said for a few moments, eyes drifting down toward her hand. And who knows what weird conclusion about biology he just came to, but the end result is this: he lifts her hand a little and bends, mouth meeting the skin of her wrist halfway.
There's no pulse in lips, right?
So this is way more accurate.]
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She wonders if Kara can hear how jumpy her heart-rate must be, and really hopes her best friend doesn't decide she needs rescuing.
Or maybe that would be better. If awkward.
God help her.]
You-- [What? She has literally no idea where to go with that sentence and just ends up biting her lip instead. It would be really great if she could just drink a little more.
Or a lot more.]
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But he can't —
No; revise. He doesn't want to stop. That's the problem. It's not that he can't, because he could. But Steph's always so cool, so on her game, so good at throwing him off his that this whole scenario has him giddy. Literally. Never mind all the emotional unloading happening, here.
He kisses up to where her sleeve begins, then pauses and glances up at her, eyebrows raised as if to say, Me?
Dick.]
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Why are you doing this?
[Turning his own words back on him, albeit changed a little, and there's no accusation in her voice, she just sounds lost.]
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Except she obviously does, somehow.
What a weird thought.
He finally takes the bottle with his free hand, but doesn't relinquish his lazy grip on her wrist just yet.]
Do you want me to stop?
[All she has to do is say the word, and he will.]
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GO BACK TO SLEEP
I am trying ;A;
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