200 word drabble (plus notes), because I'm trying to work on tightening up my style. Thanks to Andraste for a couple of pointers.
Sorry
I'm so sorry, he says.
And he *is*. She can feel it coming off of him in waves, and she soaks it up. He's sorry that *she* is hurting. That he's hurt her.
She needs someone to be sorry.
As always, just beneath it, beneath the waves of apology that sooth her, there's the thought of the children. Of their students. It's not manipulation. He just worries for them, because if he leaves, all they'll have is her. They need balance, his care to compliment her teaching. Without him, there'd be a hole. The cycle would be incomplete.
He's so sorry.
He's always so sorry. So horribly, blindingly, wonderfully sorry. Scotch and whiskey on his breath, and he only hurts her when he needs to hurt himself. He's always been so goddamned good and strong that he doesn't know what else to do, how to deal with the pain. He drinks to numb it, but he needs it to hold against Moira's memory, his failure to be there at the end, hold her hand.
Em, lass, I didn't mean tah... I'm sorry.
And he *is*. She can feel it.
I know, she says, and wipes the blood from her mouth.