[ There's a shock to his system as she reaches out to place her hand over his. A spark like getting mildly zapped by a household appliance with nothing worse for the wear; nothing bad, just a brief surprise. Amos' hand stills under hers as he breaks her gaze, turns to look at them down by his side instead. Continues to stare at their hands as Quetzalcoatl speaks, expression shifting from befuddled to confounded to irritated once it clicks. ]
It's that shit. [ His eyes narrow as his hand under hers balls up into a fist. Though his words aren't meant for her — harsh tones not directed towards her, not when she's been nothing but kind, helpful — there's an ever-increasing edge to them all the same. ] That fucking...
[ Meridian, on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't even want to say the word out loud right now. It continues to churn in him, a foreign agent that much more obviously so now that he can clearly pinpoint it, and now alongside that painful longing that isn't even real comes a rising anger. ]
I don't need more. [ His voice is a low mutter, dangerous — or would be dangerous, if there was something physical he could fight. As it stands, the only obvious way out would be for him to smash his own shard, which. He's not doing that. He's not being hasty when there has to be something he can do to rid himself of this alien force. ] I don't want more. You can't live life like that. It's too—
[ Painful. It's too painful, because then he might start thinking of everything and everyone he's lost, dating right back to childhood, to when he first became aware that people died and they never came back no matter how much you might want them to. Protect who you still have, but when they're gone, move on.
His eyes squeeze shut as another wave racks him; what if they come back? What if he can find a way to bring them back? His crew. Peaches. Erich. Maybe even Lyd—
Lydia, who died long before the universe ended, and no, there's no bringing her back.
He isn't aware of the way his lips have curled up, teeth bared; how rigid his body has become, muscles tensed for a fight that doesn't exist. He is, vaguely, aware of the hand over his, the warmth and sympathy that had been dancing around the edges of his psyche, the distinct knowledge that he is not alone.
Quetzalcoatl is just the messenger. She hasn't done anything to him. She doesn't deserve— ]
You should go.
[ His voice is still harsh, but there's an accompaniment of shame this time. He doesn't want to do anything to her, but the second he opens his eyes he's pretty sure he'll do something stupid, so better to tell her now. ]
no subject
It's that shit. [ His eyes narrow as his hand under hers balls up into a fist. Though his words aren't meant for her — harsh tones not directed towards her, not when she's been nothing but kind, helpful — there's an ever-increasing edge to them all the same. ] That fucking...
[ Meridian, on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't even want to say the word out loud right now. It continues to churn in him, a foreign agent that much more obviously so now that he can clearly pinpoint it, and now alongside that painful longing that isn't even real comes a rising anger. ]
I don't need more. [ His voice is a low mutter, dangerous — or would be dangerous, if there was something physical he could fight. As it stands, the only obvious way out would be for him to smash his own shard, which. He's not doing that. He's not being hasty when there has to be something he can do to rid himself of this alien force. ] I don't want more. You can't live life like that. It's too—
[ Painful. It's too painful, because then he might start thinking of everything and everyone he's lost, dating right back to childhood, to when he first became aware that people died and they never came back no matter how much you might want them to. Protect who you still have, but when they're gone, move on.
His eyes squeeze shut as another wave racks him; what if they come back? What if he can find a way to bring them back? His crew. Peaches. Erich. Maybe even Lyd—
Lydia, who died long before the universe ended, and no, there's no bringing her back.
He isn't aware of the way his lips have curled up, teeth bared; how rigid his body has become, muscles tensed for a fight that doesn't exist. He is, vaguely, aware of the hand over his, the warmth and sympathy that had been dancing around the edges of his psyche, the distinct knowledge that he is not alone.
Quetzalcoatl is just the messenger. She hasn't done anything to him. She doesn't deserve— ]
You should go.
[ His voice is still harsh, but there's an accompaniment of shame this time. He doesn't want to do anything to her, but the second he opens his eyes he's pretty sure he'll do something stupid, so better to tell her now. ]