[ If only it were hate. Hate is easy. Andy knows what to do with hate. Look at her — look at the violence that so obviously lives underneath her skin, how naturally the instinct to harm rises in her body when her emotions are in her throat. She's torn men apart with her bare hands. She's killed over things that hurt her less than this. But it's not hate, is it. It's a different kind of tension. The violence inherent here comes from the sweet fucking agony of giving a damn.
She should leave. She doesn't belong here. She never did, and there was a point when she didn't fucking want to — when did that change? Why did she let it? Why is she always so willfully stupid — as if trying one more time will somehow make it different than the hundred times before.
There's no real answer to any of it. And maybe it doesn't matter. Because nothing changes. Seven thousand years, and here she is again, fucking up the same way she has for centuries. She won't stop. She can't. She doesn't know how. It's only a shame that she's made it Emily's burden to bear this time. She can see what she's done — she can see it in how Emily clenches her hands in her lap. She can see it in her eyes.
Even Andy isn't sure what she means to do when she closes distance between them. Her hands end up on either arm of Emily's chair, gripping there tight. She leans down, the weight of her attention so intense that it seems possible she's killed with her stare as easily as any weapon. ]
Is that what you want? [ Lowly: ] Are you telling me to leave, or leave?
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She should leave. She doesn't belong here. She never did, and there was a point when she didn't fucking want to — when did that change? Why did she let it? Why is she always so willfully stupid — as if trying one more time will somehow make it different than the hundred times before.
There's no real answer to any of it. And maybe it doesn't matter. Because nothing changes. Seven thousand years, and here she is again, fucking up the same way she has for centuries. She won't stop. She can't. She doesn't know how. It's only a shame that she's made it Emily's burden to bear this time. She can see what she's done — she can see it in how Emily clenches her hands in her lap. She can see it in her eyes.
Even Andy isn't sure what she means to do when she closes distance between them. Her hands end up on either arm of Emily's chair, gripping there tight. She leans down, the weight of her attention so intense that it seems possible she's killed with her stare as easily as any weapon. ]
Is that what you want? [ Lowly: ] Are you telling me to leave, or leave?