[ It kills him to hear the edge of her sob, the way it scrapes uncomfortably from her throat. It makes him want to hunt down everyone that has ever hurt her and rip them limb from limb. The blood might satisfy him. Leaving her behind again never would.
His nails bite in to his palm and his eyes prickle, his shoulder pressed against the wood as he sinks down to sit on the floor. She might be in there a long time and he doesn't want to move away. ] Do you remember when we met? [ He pauses for a second but doesn't expect a response. ] You were a right dork. Skinny as a rake. Hair always looking like it had at least five birds in it at once. Your socks were never the same length. They fell down every other step. [ He hums in memory, his heart twisting. She'd been small then, delicate looking. He thinks he loved her from the very first second. ] I called you a bunch of really nasty things, darling. Judged you on your school uniform and your little goody two-shoes act. Thought you were like them. I hated your school, every single girl who went there thought they were better than me. How much of a pathetic waste of space was I? [ A self-depreciating laugh. He'd been angry, reckless. He'd grown up quick. ]
[ A breath. ] Not you though. 'Course I didn't figure that out until months after you slapped me. Still haven't met anyone with your right hook since.
[Eames was always able to talk a mile a minute, his mouth moving faster than his brain, words tumbling from his lips like there was going to be a moratorium on talking and he wanted to get his quota in before he was cut off. She used to find it annoying, but now, she finds it far too comforting.
Slowly, so slowly, she's able to calm her breathing, the hiccuping sobs she'd been muffling in the sleeves of her jumper slowing down until she can pull her hands away, scrubbing them across her face instead.
His voice is low and soothing, the thick accent he's grown out of over the years creeping back in, something comforting in the dropped consonants and drawling vowels. Lucy finds her tears drying, her heartbeat slowing, and she winds up sitting in the tub alone, breathing quietly into her knees as she listens to him reminisce about their childhood. Slowly, she crawls out of the tub, slithering onto the floor and resting there a while, letting his voice wash over her and keep her grounded in this present moment.
Eventually, she's made her way back to the door and she sits against it, knowing that he's on the other side, waiting there for her, that he'll sit there until she can open the door again. She presses her face against the wood, her heart swelling, her breath catching in her throat again but for a very different reason.]
I followed you home that first time. [ He keeps talking, his voice just a low hum whispered against the door. ] You kept telling me off, telling me you had brothers, that they were going to kick my arse if I didn't stop. But I kept going, and you kept going, and I threw question after question at you. You didn't answer any of them. Not the first day. Not the second either. I should have realised then you were a difficult woman. The third though, you said your name was Lucy, you didn't actually have brothers, and you'd let me hang out with you if I bummed you a cigarette.
[ He huffs out a laugh he doesn't feel, a fond, sad sound that spills from his lips. ] You smoked half my packet. And made fun of all my music. I loved you from that moment on. [ He rests his temple against the door. ] You stayed skinny though. And rude. And you still steal all my cigarettes, don't think I haven't noticed. I'm not that much of a chain smoker, love.
[He had frightened her at the beginning, this rough boy from the council flats, his chav accent and cheap clothes, the muscle that was already beginning to fill out his frame making him look tough and dangerous. She'd be skinny then, as he's said, petite and delicate, and she'd been afraid he might try something with her. But all he did was ask her questions, pester her, follow her around like a lost puppy. Eventually she'd told him the truth just to get him to shut up, and the way he smiled at her had just melted her heart. She'd never had anyone look at her with such sunny devotion before, and she doesn't think anyone has ever since.
Only Eames.
That laugh breaks her heart, her breath hitching in her throat, and she finds her hand crawls up the door frame, slowly turning the lock. She doesn't open the door yet, needing a moment to brace herself, letting him continue to talk, letting his voice wash over her. Finally, he lapses into silence, and she very carefully turns the knob, scrambling up onto her knees, her fingers remaining white-knuckled around the doorknob as she pulls it open a centimeter or two so she can peer out the crack at him.] Yes you are. [Her voice is wrecked, low and harsh and cracked like she's been screaming, and her eyelashes are spiky with tears, but at least she's back to English again, so that's something.]
[ She'd pretty much been the first and only person to see through all that bravado. He'd needed it more than he knew. Because he'd been a kid with no home and no one to tell him no. It doesn't matter that he's still a criminal now, that he's hurt and used and abused, because those people tend to be rougher than him, as mean as him. He picks his battles.
When she opens the door he finds it hard to hide his relief. He doesn't push though, if she can only deal with the inch he's okay with that. Instead he just pulls a face at her through it, as though this is any normal day and they are any normal people. ] Yes, I am. But you are still stealing my cigarettes.
[ He doesn't mind. He never minds. ] Do you remember when we went to Alton Towers? [ Eames had been sick in a bush and she'd laughed at him, rubbing his back while the families did their best to avoid him. ] We should do something like that again. Maybe without the roller coasters though.
I ate so much Fairy Floss I couldn't even look at it for years. [She remembers full well their adventures in Alton Towers, how they'd beat all the stupid stall games and wander around the park with huge, stuffed animals. Lucy would continue to give them away to other children and Eames would win her a new one within the next ten minutes. They'd gorged themselves on candy and illicit beer, and then they'd ride the roller coasters and Eames would be sick.] Some stupid wanker tried to pull down my top in the water park and you hit him so hard you broke his teeth. [They'd been kicked out after that, of course, and Lucy had bandaged Eames' bleeding knuckles, the two of them giggling and clinging to each other as they made their way home.
She'd known she'd loved him then, known it with a fierceness that hasn't mellowed much since.
The door creaks open a little more, one pale hand sneaking through the crack to search for his, her fingers cold and fragile in his huge palm. Piece by piece, she slithers through the door, hesitant and afraid, until she's on the bedroom side with him, curled up as small as she can get, carefully leaning against him.
[ When she inches out of the door he feels something loosen inside of his chest, Eames letting out a sigh he didn't realise he was holding. He presses her shoulder to hers and lays his hand on the floor, palm up in invitation. ]
He deserved it. [ He doesn't say it with vehemence, he doesn't want to frighten her back into the room she's made a cell. He wants her out here where he can see her, know she's real and alive and there in a way he didn't know for years. ( If only he'd looked for her, if only, if only ... ) ]
I want to take you somewhere. [ His gaze travels to the ceiling, taking comfort in her presence. ] The big question is, are we too old for Butlins or too young? [ He wishes they could escape. Somewhere, anywhere they couldn't be found. He hasn't worked a job in almost a year since he came back. He hadn't needed the money. But still it's there on the horizon, the phone that might go off one day, or the slim suited man that could knock on the door. ]
Yeah, he did. [Her hand creeps into his, her fingers slowly sliding between his, squeezing gently when she feels comfortable. It's moments like this that Lucy feels like her heart is too big for her chest, pressing against her ribs, choking her, keeping her from even swallowing properly, she's so grateful that Eames is in her life.
She pushes off from the floor, crawling even closer, twisting and sliding into Eames' lap, curling up against him and hiding her face in his chest as her fingers curl tightly in his shirt.]
Who cares how old we are? [Lucy lost eight years of her life, there are times when she still feels like she's in her twenties, like she's fresh out of uni and the world is still at her feet. And then she takes off her clothes to shower and her tattoos remind her that she's a broken shell of a person who will never be the way she used to be.
She hasn't been able to go back to work; the first week she'd been back, she'd tried, but it didn't work out. Much to her chagrin, she'd had to retire from MI-5 and she's done nothing since, hiding in her flat with Eames hanging around to look after her. He shouldn't have to play her nursemaid, she knows he has his job to worry about, however illicit it might be. Every time she thinks she's going to tell him to go, to take a new job, to go travel and do something, she has an episode like this, and the thought of being alone makes her want to scream.]
[ The minute she's in his lap he's curling his body around her like a shield. One hand cupping the back of her head while his chin rests on top, the other splaying wide on her knee. He's holding her but it's not too gentle, in fact there's a fierceness to it, the press of his fingertips trying to ground her.
He's so afraid that one day she'll disappear from him again. ]
You might not, but I do. [ He sounds like he's preening but she can probably feel the race of his heart in his chest. ] I can't lose my good looks, love. What will become of me? The ladies down at bingo won't think of my charming smile any more. I can't do that to them, they need the light in their life!
[ He presses his cheek to her hair, taking a breath. He can smell her shampoo and it feels so ordinary, so normal, that he doesn't know how such darkness can creep in. ]
[Perhaps she should be frightened by the fierce curve of his body around her, the way his arms lock about her to hold her tight to his chest, his body so heavy and real against her, but she's not. It's Eames. He still smells the same, after all these years, still uses the same shampoo and aftershave, and his t-shirt is soft beneath her cheek, his heart thumping steadily in her ear to keep her grounded.
Oleg never felt like Eames.]
The ladies at bingo will always love you, Will. [They have ever since he was a snotty teenager, this rough and tumble boy from the wrong side of the tracks coming to spend an evening with them gambling and crowing with laughter, the way he'd remember all their names and ask about their grandchildren, the way he'd fetch them fresh tea or help them out of their chairs, the way he'd introduced her to his harem of grandmas as my girl, Lucy and they'd all given them such fond, knowing smiles.
God, she wishes she was sixteen again, stupid and carefree and full of the invincibility of youth.]
[ He makes a noise at her saying his name, a huff of irritation she's heard a thousand and one times before. When they met he was already trying to shed off the skin of a boy, forging himself into something different, harder, more unbreakable. William had been the name of a scabby-kneed toddler, as far as he was concerned. ]
Mm. You're saying sweet nothings to me now. I bet it's just to get the last fag. [ He kisses her hair again, his eyes closing as he cradles her in his arms. If he could turn back the clock, if he could tell his old self not to be so pig-headed, to just stay, he would do that right away. He wouldn't care about what he'd lose because what she lost was far more. He'd only run because he was a stupid child with a complex and he'd left her to fate of something far worse than being stuck with a loser and a council flat.
He'd take it now, that life, the tedium, the misery, if only it would have meant that she was safe. ]
[He will always be Will to her. Yes, most of the time she indulges him and calls him by his surname, but she's known him since they were both children, and so there will always be a part of her that thinks of him that way. Surely it's not so bad, to be known by someone. Even someone as fucked up and broken as she is.]
Yeah, that's the reason. [Her voice is a little strangled, forcing levity that they can both see through, but she's trying.] You always could see right through me.
[She starts to cry again, big fat tears rolling down her cheek to be absorbed by his t-shirt, dripping off the end of her nose as she turns her face deeper into his chest. It isn't fair that he's sitting here on the floor of her bedroom, cradling her like a child, wasting his life trying to pick up her pieces when he should be off doing whatever he likes, stealing from the minds of the wealthy, nicking paintings off the walls of museums. It isn't fair, and yet she wants him to stay, can't bear the thought of him leaving.
Luce. [ He sounds like he's seventeen again, wrecked and confused like he was each time she'd cried back then. He'd never known what to do in those moments. Affection had been smoke and mirrors, a great big cheerful sign to back right the fuck off. Until it hadn't been. Until he'd let the brash bravado go and held her hand on night's out, cuddled up to her when she was sore. It's strange how he could have run so far from William and yet here he is now, the same girl in his arms, the same pain fracturing in his chest. ]
Love, c'mon. It's all right. [ He lifts his hand from her knee to wipe away some of the tears that have gathered on her cheek. ] M'here, okay? I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. [ He doesn't realise that's what's hurting her, not now. ] I know my tea making skills have gone a little tits up since Mombasa but I like to think I'm relearning the skill necessary for a Tetley.
[He'd held her like this when her mother died, when she had to stand at her casket and listen to her father's voice break as he lead her funeral, letting her curl up in his arms in the back of the church after everyone had left and wail into his cheap suit because her life would never be the same. He'd held her like this and stroked his big hands down her spine, gingerly petting her hair, mumbling nonsense that she can't even remember now. He always projected an air of "don't fucking touch me," all tough and ready to fight at a moment's notice, but he'd still hold her hand, he'd still let her curl up in his bed, he'd still make her a hot water bottle and let her snuggle into him when she was cramping and miserable and he'd never complain when she washed the blood out of her clothes in his bathroom sink.
She twists her fingers in his shirt, sobbing open-mouthed against his chest, her back heaving as she tries in vain to control herself.] I'm sorry. I'm sorry. [It's moaned into his chest, slurred through her tears, a jumble of syllables that have been pushing at the backs of her teeth for months now. She never meant to do this to him.]
Hey, hey. [ His voice goes impossibly soft, his fingers moving back her hair so he can kiss her on the forehead. ] Don't. You've got nothing to apologise for. So you have to shut yourself up in the bathroom every so often? So what? It's not that big of a deal. [ It's a huge deal, but they can deal with it. ]
Lucy, don't cry. [ Crooning softly, his arms rocking her slightly. ] You're all right, you're going to be all right. I promise.
[She clings to him, stretching out his shirt with how tightly she's holding on to it, sobbing into his chest as he rocks her gently back and forth like a child. There is a rational part of her mind that is rolling its eyes at her for her antics, telling her she needs to suck it up and deal with it, but that part is easily ignored in favor of the terror that makes her heart thunder in her chest even now, the fear that has her clinging to her best friend like a child clings to a stuffed toy.
She really should seek out therapy, but the thought of opening up to a stranger terrifies her. If she can't even tell Eames what happened to her, how the hell is she supposed to talk to someone she's never met before?]
[ He keeps rocking her, silent now. Every so often he presses his lips to her hair, his breathing soft and even despite the fact that his heart is racing to the point where he thinks it might burst. She has a deathly grip on his shirt but he doesn't mind it, not even the way the collar bites into the back of his neck. He just holds on and swallows down all of his questions, all of his concerns.
She could talk to him. He's not sure she'll ever want to though. ]
[What can she say to him? She's afraid to be truthful because when she tells him what happened to her in those eight long years, things between them will forever be changed. He will always look at her with this new knowledge behind his eyes, and he will be afraid to touch her. She will have lost her dignity, her sanity, and her best friend.
So she lets him hold her, continues to cling to him, sobs and sniffles into his shirt and tries to calm herself down.
Slowly, eventually, she does, whether thanks to the way he rocks her or simple exhaustion is unclear. She winds up curled in his lap, her cheek pressed to his chest, staring at the seam of his shoulder. Almost despite herself, she feels her mouth open, and she finds herself powerless to stop the words from spilling out.]
Sometimes, when it's too quiet, I hear him coming down the hall for me. [Rationally, she knows that Oleg is not here. He's not in the country, let alone in her flat, but her mind conjures up all sorts of things that she knows aren't true but cannot help believing anyway.] I'm terrified but relieved, too. I hate being left alone. At least when he comes for me I'm not alone.
Oh, darling. [ Eames strokes her face as carefully and as gently as he can, running the tips of his fingers over her cheek with it is slick with tears. ] Lucy, sweetheart. [ His own voice sounds like it's fractured inside and he presses his lips to her once more before he pulls away to look at her. ] Look at me. He's never going to get to you again, do you understand? He won't ever. And you're not going to be alone either. You know why? Because I'm here. And I won't let him near you again, I won't let anyone hurt you.
[ He shouldn't have left her in the first place. Why did he ever have to be so foolish and childish? ] I don't care who I have to take out to keep you safe. [ His mouth presses to her temple, his hand against her arm stroking small circles lightly on her skin. ] I'm going to look after you.
[She's not so far gone in her own head that she doesn't realize that she's hurting him by acting this way, but she can't help herself. Her mind runs away from her and her body follows suit, adrenalin flooding her system and making her jumpy, her stupid idiotic brain making her believe things that aren't true. All she can do is hang on for the ride and pray she makes it out the other side without losing herself along the way.
It helps to have someone to cling to, even though she knows she's hurting him by being this way.
In the movies, all it takes is a little crying, some fervent kisses, and maybe a good fucking or two, and then the damsel in distress is back to her old self and everything can move forward. Lucy is not moving forward. Lucy can't fathom the thought of Eames touching her, no matter how much she wishes he could. She doesn't even want to undress in front of him, because then he'd see the ugly, black tattoos that mar her skin, then he'd see just how much she had to change in order to fit in, in order to survive. The Lucy of their childhoods is gone, and she doesn't know how to be the woman she is now.]
Yeah. [ He just curls around her a little more carefully, his words failing him for now. ] Yeah Luce, I'm here.
[ He doesn't mind it if she needs to cry, to weep, to tear the world apart with her fingernails. He'd help her with every moment of it, he'd make it so she never had to do anything alone again. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
His nails bite in to his palm and his eyes prickle, his shoulder pressed against the wood as he sinks down to sit on the floor. She might be in there a long time and he doesn't want to move away. ] Do you remember when we met? [ He pauses for a second but doesn't expect a response. ] You were a right dork. Skinny as a rake. Hair always looking like it had at least five birds in it at once. Your socks were never the same length. They fell down every other step. [ He hums in memory, his heart twisting. She'd been small then, delicate looking. He thinks he loved her from the very first second. ] I called you a bunch of really nasty things, darling. Judged you on your school uniform and your little goody two-shoes act. Thought you were like them. I hated your school, every single girl who went there thought they were better than me. How much of a pathetic waste of space was I? [ A self-depreciating laugh. He'd been angry, reckless. He'd grown up quick. ]
[ A breath. ] Not you though. 'Course I didn't figure that out until months after you slapped me. Still haven't met anyone with your right hook since.
no subject
Slowly, so slowly, she's able to calm her breathing, the hiccuping sobs she'd been muffling in the sleeves of her jumper slowing down until she can pull her hands away, scrubbing them across her face instead.
His voice is low and soothing, the thick accent he's grown out of over the years creeping back in, something comforting in the dropped consonants and drawling vowels. Lucy finds her tears drying, her heartbeat slowing, and she winds up sitting in the tub alone, breathing quietly into her knees as she listens to him reminisce about their childhood. Slowly, she crawls out of the tub, slithering onto the floor and resting there a while, letting his voice wash over her and keep her grounded in this present moment.
Eventually, she's made her way back to the door and she sits against it, knowing that he's on the other side, waiting there for her, that he'll sit there until she can open the door again. She presses her face against the wood, her heart swelling, her breath catching in her throat again but for a very different reason.]
no subject
[ He huffs out a laugh he doesn't feel, a fond, sad sound that spills from his lips. ] You smoked half my packet. And made fun of all my music. I loved you from that moment on. [ He rests his temple against the door. ] You stayed skinny though. And rude. And you still steal all my cigarettes, don't think I haven't noticed. I'm not that much of a chain smoker, love.
no subject
Only Eames.
That laugh breaks her heart, her breath hitching in her throat, and she finds her hand crawls up the door frame, slowly turning the lock. She doesn't open the door yet, needing a moment to brace herself, letting him continue to talk, letting his voice wash over her. Finally, he lapses into silence, and she very carefully turns the knob, scrambling up onto her knees, her fingers remaining white-knuckled around the doorknob as she pulls it open a centimeter or two so she can peer out the crack at him.] Yes you are. [Her voice is wrecked, low and harsh and cracked like she's been screaming, and her eyelashes are spiky with tears, but at least she's back to English again, so that's something.]
no subject
When she opens the door he finds it hard to hide his relief. He doesn't push though, if she can only deal with the inch he's okay with that. Instead he just pulls a face at her through it, as though this is any normal day and they are any normal people. ] Yes, I am. But you are still stealing my cigarettes.
[ He doesn't mind. He never minds. ] Do you remember when we went to Alton Towers? [ Eames had been sick in a bush and she'd laughed at him, rubbing his back while the families did their best to avoid him. ] We should do something like that again. Maybe without the roller coasters though.
no subject
She'd known she'd loved him then, known it with a fierceness that hasn't mellowed much since.
The door creaks open a little more, one pale hand sneaking through the crack to search for his, her fingers cold and fragile in his huge palm. Piece by piece, she slithers through the door, hesitant and afraid, until she's on the bedroom side with him, curled up as small as she can get, carefully leaning against him.
It's okay. Eames is safe.]
no subject
He deserved it. [ He doesn't say it with vehemence, he doesn't want to frighten her back into the room she's made a cell. He wants her out here where he can see her, know she's real and alive and there in a way he didn't know for years. ( If only he'd looked for her, if only, if only ... ) ]
I want to take you somewhere. [ His gaze travels to the ceiling, taking comfort in her presence. ] The big question is, are we too old for Butlins or too young? [ He wishes they could escape. Somewhere, anywhere they couldn't be found. He hasn't worked a job in almost a year since he came back. He hadn't needed the money. But still it's there on the horizon, the phone that might go off one day, or the slim suited man that could knock on the door. ]
no subject
She pushes off from the floor, crawling even closer, twisting and sliding into Eames' lap, curling up against him and hiding her face in his chest as her fingers curl tightly in his shirt.]
Who cares how old we are? [Lucy lost eight years of her life, there are times when she still feels like she's in her twenties, like she's fresh out of uni and the world is still at her feet. And then she takes off her clothes to shower and her tattoos remind her that she's a broken shell of a person who will never be the way she used to be.
She hasn't been able to go back to work; the first week she'd been back, she'd tried, but it didn't work out. Much to her chagrin, she'd had to retire from MI-5 and she's done nothing since, hiding in her flat with Eames hanging around to look after her. He shouldn't have to play her nursemaid, she knows he has his job to worry about, however illicit it might be. Every time she thinks she's going to tell him to go, to take a new job, to go travel and do something, she has an episode like this, and the thought of being alone makes her want to scream.]
no subject
He's so afraid that one day she'll disappear from him again. ]
You might not, but I do. [ He sounds like he's preening but she can probably feel the race of his heart in his chest. ] I can't lose my good looks, love. What will become of me? The ladies down at bingo won't think of my charming smile any more. I can't do that to them, they need the light in their life!
[ He presses his cheek to her hair, taking a breath. He can smell her shampoo and it feels so ordinary, so normal, that he doesn't know how such darkness can creep in. ]
no subject
Oleg never felt like Eames.]
The ladies at bingo will always love you, Will. [They have ever since he was a snotty teenager, this rough and tumble boy from the wrong side of the tracks coming to spend an evening with them gambling and crowing with laughter, the way he'd remember all their names and ask about their grandchildren, the way he'd fetch them fresh tea or help them out of their chairs, the way he'd introduced her to his harem of grandmas as my girl, Lucy and they'd all given them such fond, knowing smiles.
God, she wishes she was sixteen again, stupid and carefree and full of the invincibility of youth.]
Just like me.
no subject
Mm. You're saying sweet nothings to me now. I bet it's just to get the last fag. [ He kisses her hair again, his eyes closing as he cradles her in his arms. If he could turn back the clock, if he could tell his old self not to be so pig-headed, to just stay, he would do that right away. He wouldn't care about what he'd lose because what she lost was far more. He'd only run because he was a stupid child with a complex and he'd left her to fate of something far worse than being stuck with a loser and a council flat.
He'd take it now, that life, the tedium, the misery, if only it would have meant that she was safe. ]
no subject
Yeah, that's the reason. [Her voice is a little strangled, forcing levity that they can both see through, but she's trying.] You always could see right through me.
[She starts to cry again, big fat tears rolling down her cheek to be absorbed by his t-shirt, dripping off the end of her nose as she turns her face deeper into his chest. It isn't fair that he's sitting here on the floor of her bedroom, cradling her like a child, wasting his life trying to pick up her pieces when he should be off doing whatever he likes, stealing from the minds of the wealthy, nicking paintings off the walls of museums. It isn't fair, and yet she wants him to stay, can't bear the thought of him leaving.
She's such a coward.]
no subject
Love, c'mon. It's all right. [ He lifts his hand from her knee to wipe away some of the tears that have gathered on her cheek. ] M'here, okay? I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. [ He doesn't realise that's what's hurting her, not now. ] I know my tea making skills have gone a little tits up since Mombasa but I like to think I'm relearning the skill necessary for a Tetley.
no subject
She twists her fingers in his shirt, sobbing open-mouthed against his chest, her back heaving as she tries in vain to control herself.] I'm sorry. I'm sorry. [It's moaned into his chest, slurred through her tears, a jumble of syllables that have been pushing at the backs of her teeth for months now. She never meant to do this to him.]
no subject
Lucy, don't cry. [ Crooning softly, his arms rocking her slightly. ] You're all right, you're going to be all right. I promise.
no subject
She really should seek out therapy, but the thought of opening up to a stranger terrifies her. If she can't even tell Eames what happened to her, how the hell is she supposed to talk to someone she's never met before?]
no subject
She could talk to him. He's not sure she'll ever want to though. ]
no subject
So she lets him hold her, continues to cling to him, sobs and sniffles into his shirt and tries to calm herself down.
Slowly, eventually, she does, whether thanks to the way he rocks her or simple exhaustion is unclear. She winds up curled in his lap, her cheek pressed to his chest, staring at the seam of his shoulder. Almost despite herself, she feels her mouth open, and she finds herself powerless to stop the words from spilling out.]
Sometimes, when it's too quiet, I hear him coming down the hall for me. [Rationally, she knows that Oleg is not here. He's not in the country, let alone in her flat, but her mind conjures up all sorts of things that she knows aren't true but cannot help believing anyway.] I'm terrified but relieved, too. I hate being left alone. At least when he comes for me I'm not alone.
no subject
[ He shouldn't have left her in the first place. Why did he ever have to be so foolish and childish? ] I don't care who I have to take out to keep you safe. [ His mouth presses to her temple, his hand against her arm stroking small circles lightly on her skin. ] I'm going to look after you.
no subject
It helps to have someone to cling to, even though she knows she's hurting him by being this way.
In the movies, all it takes is a little crying, some fervent kisses, and maybe a good fucking or two, and then the damsel in distress is back to her old self and everything can move forward. Lucy is not moving forward. Lucy can't fathom the thought of Eames touching her, no matter how much she wishes he could. She doesn't even want to undress in front of him, because then he'd see the ugly, black tattoos that mar her skin, then he'd see just how much she had to change in order to fit in, in order to survive. The Lucy of their childhoods is gone, and she doesn't know how to be the woman she is now.]
Will.
no subject
[ He doesn't mind it if she needs to cry, to weep, to tear the world apart with her fingernails. He'd help her with every moment of it, he'd make it so she never had to do anything alone again. ]
It's gonna be okay.