[ Death, he thinks, brings clarity. So it had been when Vander had tried to drown him in the river, the panic of asphyxiation (the consuming pain of betrayal) giving way to a clear vision of his path forward. He had died and been reborn in that wastewater.
It's similar, this time. It's not that he can really push the pain aside or otherwise ignore it β the holes in his chest sending blood blossoming into his throat, his mouth, thick and warm and evidence of life slipping away β but when he speaks, there's nothing clouding his mind, not even a stammer in his voice. He has never been more certain in his life.
Don't cry, as his face begins to go slack, as his vision starts to blur, the smarting of his wounds indistinguishable from the pang he feels at the sight of the tears welling in her eyes. You're perfect.
Death brings clarity, and some part of him, wishful, hopes it'll be that way for her. He doesn't bargain for what happens, after.
Life flows through him in bursts, like circuits firing at the wrong times. No light the first time she fires the staplegun into his flesh to mend torn skin, one light the next, a grunt and twitch that indicate something remains behind his pale-pale-paler facade. One blue eye briefly visible, rolling back into his skull; the other, orange, lidless and staring, an unintentional assignation of blame for anyone looking for it. Another staple β a shockwave of pressure, the impact of Vander's fist, of Powder throwing herself into his lap amidst still-smoking wreckage, of Jinx dropping from the rafters β the line of his jaw going taut and then slack again. That injection of Shimmer β his head rolls, cranes from one side to the other as a breath rattles in his throat β he's still in the water, still gulping in everything but air, agony spooling out from the nerves of his eye to through the rest of his entire frame.
Time slips away, so does vision and sound. The pitch of her voice registers as splotches of blue, the sight of her a keening in his head. He's conscious before he fully realizes he is, simply blinking for a long moment before he realizesβ he's alive. To escape the darkness once is a miracle. To escape it twice is hubris. But does it matter? He would kill for her, die for her. Most only get the chance to prove such a thing, rather than living to see such a promise appreciated.
A cough gives him away before he speaks, but when he does β again, no stammer, no pause. ]
no subject
It's similar, this time. It's not that he can really push the pain aside or otherwise ignore it β the holes in his chest sending blood blossoming into his throat, his mouth, thick and warm and evidence of life slipping away β but when he speaks, there's nothing clouding his mind, not even a stammer in his voice. He has never been more certain in his life.
Don't cry, as his face begins to go slack, as his vision starts to blur, the smarting of his wounds indistinguishable from the pang he feels at the sight of the tears welling in her eyes. You're perfect.
Death brings clarity, and some part of him, wishful, hopes it'll be that way for her. He doesn't bargain for what happens, after.
Life flows through him in bursts, like circuits firing at the wrong times. No light the first time she fires the staplegun into his flesh to mend torn skin, one light the next, a grunt and twitch that indicate something remains behind his pale-pale-paler facade. One blue eye briefly visible, rolling back into his skull; the other, orange, lidless and staring, an unintentional assignation of blame for anyone looking for it. Another staple β a shockwave of pressure, the impact of Vander's fist, of Powder throwing herself into his lap amidst still-smoking wreckage, of Jinx dropping from the rafters β the line of his jaw going taut and then slack again. That injection of Shimmer β his head rolls, cranes from one side to the other as a breath rattles in his throat β he's still in the water, still gulping in everything but air, agony spooling out from the nerves of his eye to through the rest of his entire frame.
Time slips away, so does vision and sound. The pitch of her voice registers as splotches of blue, the sight of her a keening in his head. He's conscious before he fully realizes he is, simply blinking for a long moment before he realizesβ he's alive. To escape the darkness once is a miracle. To escape it twice is hubris. But does it matter? He would kill for her, die for her. Most only get the chance to prove such a thing, rather than living to see such a promise appreciated.
A cough gives him away before he speaks, but when he does β again, no stammer, no pause. ]
I thought I told you not to cry.