The bruise wasn't visible, but the bursting pain guaranteed royal purple
splotches along the edge of her hip. She scowled at the perpetrator of the
carefree and careless events that lead to her unexpected collision with the
kitchen table, and his wide grin faltered.
"You might have been happy to see me, Heero," she snapped, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes, catching more than enough sweat in the stroke to plaster it back, "But I'm not so happy to see you. I've been waiting for over an hour. Then you think it's funny to rough house when I needed you to be serious."
She watched as layers of insecurity fused his jaw into place, even though his lips closed around the now inappropriate smile. Poised to speak, but not knowing what to say, Heero waited. It had taken long enough for the morose Japanese man to open up to her, watching him default into degrees of his emotionally primitive disposition did not win her sympathy as much as her frustration.
She threw up her hands and felt icy cruelness slip through her arms and settle between her shoulders, "I should have run away with Trowa when I had the chance," She continued without hesitation, her justification built through equal guilt from both parties according to her own reasoning, "At least he has some idea of how to function around women." Even behind the blinding fury building, some of it disgust at her own inability to control her temper, she knew that Heero's dysfunction was more compatible with her own. Watching his skin pale even as his exposed and slightly protruding ears turned deeper crimson, she tasted her tongue going dry and sour.
He didn't speak. She knew he wouldn't, because he let himself wallow in his insecurity whenever he couldn't have her undivided support. Almost, but not quite, she could see his fear of intimacy, lust for suicide and inclination for vengeance wrestle underneath the throbbing veins on his neck.
She bent so that her arms supported her against the edge of the table, shoulders rolling forward even as her chin tucked and turned away from him. Her eyes snapped shut when she couldn't stop them from burning with the internal eruption of lava-warmed tears. Alternately, she chewed her lip or let it tremble broken and sore.
She wanted to pound her fists into his chest when he pulled her into his arms. Her teeth scraped against his bare shoulder as his fingers wound into her hair and pressed her fully against him.
"What have I done?" Her own voice sounded pathetic, rasped by broken, uncontrolled breath. Her knuckles were so taunt that after a while she tore the seam of his shirt, rubbing the flesh on one side of his neck raw.
He would forgive her outburst. He always did. His forgiveness was the only reliable thing she could claim.
Sometimes, though, he could still surprise her.
"I'm sorry, Hilde."
"You might have been happy to see me, Heero," she snapped, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes, catching more than enough sweat in the stroke to plaster it back, "But I'm not so happy to see you. I've been waiting for over an hour. Then you think it's funny to rough house when I needed you to be serious."
She watched as layers of insecurity fused his jaw into place, even though his lips closed around the now inappropriate smile. Poised to speak, but not knowing what to say, Heero waited. It had taken long enough for the morose Japanese man to open up to her, watching him default into degrees of his emotionally primitive disposition did not win her sympathy as much as her frustration.
She threw up her hands and felt icy cruelness slip through her arms and settle between her shoulders, "I should have run away with Trowa when I had the chance," She continued without hesitation, her justification built through equal guilt from both parties according to her own reasoning, "At least he has some idea of how to function around women." Even behind the blinding fury building, some of it disgust at her own inability to control her temper, she knew that Heero's dysfunction was more compatible with her own. Watching his skin pale even as his exposed and slightly protruding ears turned deeper crimson, she tasted her tongue going dry and sour.
He didn't speak. She knew he wouldn't, because he let himself wallow in his insecurity whenever he couldn't have her undivided support. Almost, but not quite, she could see his fear of intimacy, lust for suicide and inclination for vengeance wrestle underneath the throbbing veins on his neck.
She bent so that her arms supported her against the edge of the table, shoulders rolling forward even as her chin tucked and turned away from him. Her eyes snapped shut when she couldn't stop them from burning with the internal eruption of lava-warmed tears. Alternately, she chewed her lip or let it tremble broken and sore.
She wanted to pound her fists into his chest when he pulled her into his arms. Her teeth scraped against his bare shoulder as his fingers wound into her hair and pressed her fully against him.
"What have I done?" Her own voice sounded pathetic, rasped by broken, uncontrolled breath. Her knuckles were so taunt that after a while she tore the seam of his shirt, rubbing the flesh on one side of his neck raw.
He would forgive her outburst. He always did. His forgiveness was the only reliable thing she could claim.
Sometimes, though, he could still surprise her.
"I'm sorry, Hilde."
