The texture of the air changes. The room, its flat light, the rows of thin mattresses slotted into plastic chambers, now host to the impossible. William's head tips back as though an unseen hand has grasped him by the chin. “Are you a witch?” he asks, his eyes, his mouth—the lines of his face softening. There's something tender in the question, beating at the heart of it.
To him this is a kindness, this glimpse into who she is. He forgets what he's promised—forgets himself, almost—until she prompts him. “What I did.” His gaze fixes on her hands, prim and pale, in her lap. What can he say to equal what she's shown him?
“I tormented people. Used them, what they felt for me. Somewhere along the line they stopped...” Being people. He remembers hacking into a man's leg, down to the whirring metal. Logan flinching at his touch. He stops staring at her hands, seeks out her eyes—her gaze like a double-barreled gun.
no subject
The texture of the air changes. The room, its flat light, the rows of thin mattresses slotted into plastic chambers, now host to the impossible. William's head tips back as though an unseen hand has grasped him by the chin. “Are you a witch?” he asks, his eyes, his mouth—the lines of his face softening. There's something tender in the question, beating at the heart of it.
To him this is a kindness, this glimpse into who she is. He forgets what he's promised—forgets himself, almost—until she prompts him. “What I did.” His gaze fixes on her hands, prim and pale, in her lap. What can he say to equal what she's shown him?
“I tormented people. Used them, what they felt for me. Somewhere along the line they stopped...” Being people. He remembers hacking into a man's leg, down to the whirring metal. Logan flinching at his touch. He stops staring at her hands, seeks out her eyes—her gaze like a double-barreled gun.