It's why she lets him take the bottle, why she doesn't pull her wrist away even though she really should. There's a brief moment where her expression nearly crumples, but she bites her lip hard, forcing herself steady.]
You know I can't.
[Can't... do this, whatever it is. It's too complicated with everything in her past and everything that's happened her, and that's not even touching on the issue with Ellie. She loves her, she does so it should make it easier to pull away from Saul, now, except it doesn't at all.
[With the way he's watching her, nothing goes unnoticed. Certainly not the way her expression shifts. And that actually makes him hesitate, because her answer is... weird. It's not really what he asked.
All things considered, he thinks he knows what she means.
So he should stop. He really, really should.
And he does, sort of. Saul releases her hand and straightens a little, suddenly expectant. Waiting. The ball's in her court, so to speak.]
[When he lets go of her wrist, it's a bit like a switch has been flipped and she manages to move back, at least until she hits the wall, wrapping her arms around herself.]
Got what you wanted?
[Maybe she means the bottle of scotch that he took from her, since that's where her gaze goes, but there's too much bitterness in her tone for it to be that simple.
She's not being fair and she knows it, but she doesn't know what he wants from her and that's a little scary.]
[Ouch. That actually makes him flinch. For a long moment, he looks genuinely apologetic and actually a little hurt.
And then he looks... annoyed, maybe, thanks to the way his eyes narrow just slightly. He has to literally bite his tongue to keep from snapping back at her: Did you?
And if she were anyone else, that's exactly what he'd say.
But —
It's his turn to choke the bottle.]
I don't want anything from you. That's the problem.
[It's easier to look at him when she's got that little bit of anger to hold onto, but it means that she doesn't miss that hurt look. She should say sorry, should apologize for being a bitch, that would mean admitting that she's not really angry at him, and she's not ready the do that.]
Then what was all that about? If you don't--
[She trails off, waving a hand through the air to convey the sentence she didn't finish.
That's not what she meant and she knows it, but she didn't know what else to say.]
But he stops with some distance between them, because — not when she's on guard like that, no way. In fact, he even realizes what a stupid idea that was and takes one step back.]
She's mad. He can't blame her, really, since he's naturally assuming that he's the one she's mad at. This is... a lot of his fault, technically. Why shouldn't she be mad?]
Steph...
[He's not going to say it. She could beg for real, and he wouldn't say it.
But mostly, he just sounds like he's about to plead with her to please not be mad at him.]
[The way he says her name just makes her want to take another step back, as if she might able to run away from that. Which isn't even remotely possible.]
Doesn't matter.
[What he was going to say or what just happened or maybe she just means herself in general.
Maybe that's why she finds the courage to snatch up the bottle of scotch and take another swig, carefully not looking at him, almost turned away, even if can't actually ignore his presence in the room.]
Saul thought, for sure, that she — well. He's not really sure. Would have left, by now. Or hit him. Or something. But now she's trying to ignore him? In his own room?
He has no idea what to do with this situation. For someone like him, someone who always has a plan and who knows what course of action to take, this is maddening. And with the way she's downing that booze...
Wow, is this a mess.]
You're not gonna be able to swing around buildings if you're drunk, you know.
[She sets the bottle back down, bracing one hand on the desk, the other covering her mouth. She really just wants to sit down, or fall down or do anything other than this.
Hundred percent, I don't need to be drunk to be a slut.
[There's that anger again, but it's all so obviously directed at herself, because she hates that word and if it'd been anyone but herself using it, she'd hit them. But it feels like the only one that really fits, when she's here in Saul's bedroom instead of at the apartment with Ellie, when she couldn't help herself from kissing Vanadi again even though she knew she shouldn't.
The way her hand drags through her hair looks a little painful, but at least she looks at Saul, offering a smile full of that same self-mockery.]
[And there they are, back at square one. He frowns, studying her face. Self-loathing doesn't look good on her. It looks about as good as the guilt churning in his gut feels, so — not at all.
What's he supposed to say to that? You're not a slut, it's okay, you didn't even do anything?]
[For a moment she doesn't say anything more, just watches him in silence, until finally she just clenches her jaw and looks away. She wants to hit something do badly, but she doesnt think Saul would approve of her putting a hole in his wall with her fist.]
I should go before I fuck things up even more.
[She hates the part of herself that wants him to ask her to stay.]
[No, but he would feel better if she hit something else. Like him.
He doesn't even realize that he's reaching out for her; he's too focused on her face to see anything else. When he speaks, his voice is soft. A little shaky, too.]
[She should pull away, she should jump out the window or even just walk past him and leave by the front door. It doesn't even matter if anyone saw her; she's entirely past caring.]
Ellie would-- [The rest of the words catch in her throat, and just makes a soft, sad sound instead of trying again.
[She should go. She should really, really leave, and Saul is completely out of ideas as to how to get her out of here without actually telling her to hit the road. He can't find the words for that.
It's then that he decides this would be much, much easier for both of them if she hated him, instead.
[There's a moment where she forgets herself, and for a second she's responding, kissing him, before her thoughts actually catch up with what's happening.
It's not easy, to step back, and it's even less easy to snatch her hand away from his, holding her hands to her chest instead, defensive and protective all at once, her fingers curled around her own wrist. After spending most of this conversation not being able to look at him, she's meeting his gaze now, and there's nothing in her expression but hurt.]
Why?
[It's an accusation, because he knows, he knows that she can't do this and she can't imagine any reason why he'd keep pushing except for that he hates her, maybe.]
[Well that... backfired. Sort of. He stares at her for a moment, expression blank, then runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head.
What he wants to do is tell her the truth, but his heart is lodged so high up in his throat that he isn't sure he can even speak. And how ridiculous would it sound, coming from him? "Because I think I'm in love with you"? Please.
He looks like he's about to panic.]
You should go. Wait. No; I'll —
[He swallows, backing up.]
You go when you feel like it. I'm gonna go... out.
[For a walk. A really long walk. A few more seconds pass before he's able to break his gaze away from her and slip out the bedroom door. But before he's gone completely:]
[She has no frame of reference for this, absolutely no idea what to do or think, so she just stands there, fingers digging into her wrist so hard she leaves red crescents on her skin, while she tries to figure out what's even going on.
This is ridiculous; a few weeks ago she was just teasing him, playing around, and now she feels like someone's cut the legs from under her and tipped the world upside down.
It takes her a while to register what he's saying, and then her expression crumples even more, something like guilt written across her face, but she knows she can't tell him to stay. She has to let him leave because otherwise he won't and then she won't and everything will just keep getting worse.]
It's okay.
[He doesn't have to be sorry, even if she still doesn't understand why he kissed her when he knows she can't, when he said he didn't want anything from her.
Moving is an effort, and it takes her a few minutes to actually manage it, but then she's just climbing out the window, letting the cold air burn her lungs before she drops. It's only five stories, so she doesn't bother with a grapple, just slows her descent by bouncing off windowsills, until her boots hit the ground. Leaning back against the wall and sliding down until she's curled in on herself is kind of pathetic, but there's not really much else she can do, right now.]
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controlledvariable) wrote2014-02-02 07:59 pm
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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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It's why she lets him take the bottle, why she doesn't pull her wrist away even though she really should. There's a brief moment where her expression nearly crumples, but she bites her lip hard, forcing herself steady.]
You know I can't.
[Can't... do this, whatever it is. It's too complicated with everything in her past and everything that's happened her, and that's not even touching on the issue with Ellie. She loves her, she does so it should make it easier to pull away from Saul, now, except it doesn't at all.
She feels awful.]
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All things considered, he thinks he knows what she means.
So he should stop. He really, really should.
And he does, sort of. Saul releases her hand and straightens a little, suddenly expectant. Waiting. The ball's in her court, so to speak.]
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Got what you wanted?
[Maybe she means the bottle of scotch that he took from her, since that's where her gaze goes, but there's too much bitterness in her tone for it to be that simple.
She's not being fair and she knows it, but she doesn't know what he wants from her and that's a little scary.]
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And then he looks... annoyed, maybe, thanks to the way his eyes narrow just slightly. He has to literally bite his tongue to keep from snapping back at her: Did you?
And if she were anyone else, that's exactly what he'd say.
But —
It's his turn to choke the bottle.]
I don't want anything from you. That's the problem.
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Then what was all that about? If you don't--
[She trails off, waving a hand through the air to convey the sentence she didn't finish.
That's not what she meant and she knows it, but she didn't know what else to say.]
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[He sets the bottle down, inches closer again.
Like an idiot.
But he stops with some distance between them, because — not when she's on guard like that, no way. In fact, he even realizes what a stupid idea that was and takes one step back.]
You really can't tell?
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[Quiet and plaintive, as she drops her face into her hands for a moment, pressing her fingers hard against her closed eyelids until she sees stars.]
Maybe you should use small words.
[There's the bitterness again, but it's directed at herself, because she's a fucking idiot.]
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She's mad. He can't blame her, really, since he's naturally assuming that he's the one she's mad at. This is... a lot of his fault, technically. Why shouldn't she be mad?]
Steph...
[He's not going to say it. She could beg for real, and he wouldn't say it.
But mostly, he just sounds like he's about to plead with her to please not be mad at him.]
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Doesn't matter.
[What he was going to say or what just happened or maybe she just means herself in general.
Maybe that's why she finds the courage to snatch up the bottle of scotch and take another swig, carefully not looking at him, almost turned away, even if can't actually ignore his presence in the room.]
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Saul thought, for sure, that she — well. He's not really sure. Would have left, by now. Or hit him. Or something. But now she's trying to ignore him? In his own room?
He has no idea what to do with this situation. For someone like him, someone who always has a plan and who knows what course of action to take, this is maddening. And with the way she's downing that booze...
Wow, is this a mess.]
You're not gonna be able to swing around buildings if you're drunk, you know.
no subject
Instead, she laughs.]
I'm not even close to being drunk.
[Maybe it'd be easier if she was.]
GO BACK TO SLEEP
If she's not drunk, what's with the need for support?]
You sure about that?
I am trying ;A;
[There's that anger again, but it's all so obviously directed at herself, because she hates that word and if it'd been anyone but herself using it, she'd hit them. But it feels like the only one that really fits, when she's here in Saul's bedroom instead of at the apartment with Ellie, when she couldn't help herself from kissing Vanadi again even though she knew she shouldn't.
The way her hand drags through her hair looks a little painful, but at least she looks at Saul, offering a smile full of that same self-mockery.]
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What's he supposed to say to that? You're not a slut, it's okay, you didn't even do anything?]
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I should go before I fuck things up even more.
[She hates the part of herself that wants him to ask her to stay.]
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He doesn't even realize that he's reaching out for her; he's too focused on her face to see anything else. When he speaks, his voice is soft. A little shaky, too.]
You didn't fuck anything up.
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[She should pull away, she should jump out the window or even just walk past him and leave by the front door. It doesn't even matter if anyone saw her; she's entirely past caring.]
Ellie would-- [The rest of the words catch in her throat, and just makes a soft, sad sound instead of trying again.
Ellie would hate her, if she found out.]
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This probably isn't helping, but it's this or nothing. He can't do nothing. He also can't... distract her, again. Even if he still wants to.]
So don't tell her, Steph. Nothing happened.
[How can he even say that with a straight face.]
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[Just - incredulous, accompanied by a bitter huff of laughter.
Nevermind that she's still here and gripping his hand and trying not to hate herself more than she already does, right now.]
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It's then that he decides this would be much, much easier for both of them if she hated him, instead.
So he kisses her.]
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It's not easy, to step back, and it's even less easy to snatch her hand away from his, holding her hands to her chest instead, defensive and protective all at once, her fingers curled around her own wrist. After spending most of this conversation not being able to look at him, she's meeting his gaze now, and there's nothing in her expression but hurt.]
Why?
[It's an accusation, because he knows, he knows that she can't do this and she can't imagine any reason why he'd keep pushing except for that he hates her, maybe.]
What did I do to you?
[Why is he doing this?]
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What he wants to do is tell her the truth, but his heart is lodged so high up in his throat that he isn't sure he can even speak. And how ridiculous would it sound, coming from him? "Because I think I'm in love with you"? Please.
He looks like he's about to panic.]
You should go. Wait. No; I'll —
[He swallows, backing up.]
You go when you feel like it. I'm gonna go... out.
[For a walk. A really long walk. A few more seconds pass before he's able to break his gaze away from her and slip out the bedroom door. But before he's gone completely:]
I'm really sorry, Steph.
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This is ridiculous; a few weeks ago she was just teasing him, playing around, and now she feels like someone's cut the legs from under her and tipped the world upside down.
It takes her a while to register what he's saying, and then her expression crumples even more, something like guilt written across her face, but she knows she can't tell him to stay. She has to let him leave because otherwise he won't and then she won't and everything will just keep getting worse.]
It's okay.
[He doesn't have to be sorry, even if she still doesn't understand why he kissed her when he knows she can't, when he said he didn't want anything from her.
Moving is an effort, and it takes her a few minutes to actually manage it, but then she's just climbing out the window, letting the cold air burn her lungs before she drops. It's only five stories, so she doesn't bother with a grapple, just slows her descent by bouncing off windowsills, until her boots hit the ground. Leaning back against the wall and sliding down until she's curled in on herself is kind of pathetic, but there's not really much else she can do, right now.]