I know I take risks. That's what I am – a risk-taker, a gambler. I don't need you yelling to tell me that. I don't need your anger and… whatever else it is that compels you to do a lecture worthy of Cowley. And you do, every time, shouting loud enough to wake the dead. Not that it's ever very long. Usually it's brief and explosive before you settle back in tight, cold, vehemence, not talking to me. I hate that. I'm the one who's supposed to be brooding and ruminating and a (what's that term?) bleeding heart. Not you. Most people don't seem to understand that. They seem to think we're just one or the other. It doesn't work that way, everyone's got these emotions. You just don't show them as often. Oh yeah, the risks. That's what you're really angry about isn't it? It used to be for the thrill, I guess. That mercurial moment that's do or die, that silver flash of this is it…
But not now. The risks – yeah I'll still take 'em but not for the same reasons. It's definitely not the same reasons. Don't you realise? How can you not see what I do? Why I do it? The main reason I'm taking these crazy, stupid risks is because it is going to save you.
If I said that out loud I think you'd be surprised; I'm always the one who gets hurt, caught, almost killed because I take these risks. Because I endanger my life. Remember the window? You yelled at me and I yelled back, do you remember what I said? You just shrugged it off like you didn't matter. But it did matter. You act like you're so indifferent, like you're never bothered by anything.
I know differently Bodie. I lost a partner once. That's never happening again.
I'm not the only one who needs protecting.