that's like saying world war ii was a bad time. it's technically true, but it doesn't actually tell the story.
[ she huffs a bit, grateful he can't see her. the dressing room is abandoned; though she doesn't say so, she starts to walk back towards the tram station, where she'll (in theory) catch a ride back towards his apartment. maybe. if he doesn't irritate her first. ]
it's fine. you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. i just thought we weren't keeping secrets from each other.
[ he doesn't answer for a very long time. he needs the time to actually figure out if he wants to open this part of himself with her. ]
Early on, I told you what I didn't want to speak about when we talked about my control. Well, this man decided to speak about it. Very loudly and in my face. I didn't like it.
[ and this hadn't even been solo and his information. that had been worse. he'd been ready to kill solo. ]
[ it takes him long enough to answer that by the time the message rolls through her interface, daisy's already boarded a tram. she'll head in that direction, but until he actually replies, she hadn't decided whether she'd actually go.
now, though, she knows she will. she won't leave him alone to deal with the wake of that kind of anger alone. ]
i remember.
[ how sharply he'd redirected her, how quick to cut off that line of questioning he'd been. she knew the emotion must be raw or repressed to trigger that kind of reaction — but she didn't know which was worse. ]
i'm sorry.
[ i'm sorry i wasn't there, she almost says, but it's not the point. her presence probably wouldn't have mattered — as far as daisy knows, anyway. ]
[ about how control was important. about how she wanted to help him master it. about how it worried her when he let go like that, anger unrestrained and unchecked. ]
i hate when you do this.
[ goddamnit. she doesn't mean to hit send, but. well. emotions get the better of her sometimes. ]
[ she doesn't know how to answer at first. it doesn't feel like the kind of thing she should say over a message like this, but she can't just sit in digital silence either.
[ he'd answered the question! he doesn't know what more she wants. he's standing in his bathroom, breathing noisily and trying to figure out what to say. ]
Some of what this...man said was true. About her. He does not know her but I do. Did. And it was not something I wanted to hear. Not from anyone. It reminds me of that time when I was weak. My partner looked up my file before we started working together. He knew everything.
[ it does not take an actual rocket scientist or even a particularly intelligent person to wonder what a fighter who lost in the ring might say about someone else's mom as trash talk. she doesn't know if he means that those sorts of comments are true or just that he doesn't want to hear someone talk about his mother that way, but she can appreciate the sore spot that family can be. she can sympathize with the blind rage it might pull from someone who hasn't had opportunity to actually deal with their emotions. ]
having emotions doesn't make you weak, illya. it just makes you human. if someone talked shit about my parents, i'd want to punch them too. you're not alone in those feelings. you can talk to me about them.
[ he's never talked about this. ever. not with anyone. he knows what his file says and he knows others are aware but he has kept that part of his life in the darkness for decades. ]
say how you feel. or what you feel, if that's easier. why does hearing someone trash talk someone they've never met or even heard of upset you? why did solo reading your file upset you?
you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. but i think it would help.
[ and she is. or will be. becomes? by the time he's out of the shower and dried, daisy's found her way inside. there's a ritual to this: she sheds her clothes, pulls on a shirt, and finds a comfortable spot (the same one, always the same spot) on the bed to wait. ]
[ the truth is that he's weak. she can tell him he isn't but he knows he is. he was weak as a child and after that, he'd vowed to never to let anyone see anything but the stoic, stern man that the kgb had made him into.
but he's weak and he hasn't thought about that locked away past as much in the past few years as he has today. it's staggered him a bit. so, after he dries off and slips into a pair of shorts, he walks into the bedroom and sees here there and, well.
the normal thing would be walk around, put his towel away, kiss her hello, get some water. he does none of those things. he tosses the towel onto the dresser, uncaring if it slid off before crossing over to the bed, climbing on and laying himself on his side so he could shift closer and press his face against her hip, breathe her in, hide from the world and the words for a bit. ]
[ she doesn't expect him to start talking right away. honestly, she doesn't really expect him to talk at all. maybe another time, another day, after he's had a chance to sort his thoughts and figure out what he wants to say, they can talk about it.
she doesn't expect him to burrow into her, either, but she rolls with it. her body shifts to accommodate him, a hand carding into his hair, the other smoothing out across his bare shoulder and upper back in a gentle motion. just enough that he'll feel her touch, but not so much that it's a push to do anything but lay there and breathe. ]
Hey, [ soft, quiet; her nails scratch against his scalp, a gentle trail of her fingertips through his hair. ] It's okay.
[ about his family, his past, a time he'd locked away and called unimportant. he'd been but a boy then, a slave to his emotions and unable to control himself. he'd learned how to live and survive, how to kill and maim and that had made him strong.
perhaps he was starting to learn that that wasn't exactly true. he presses his fae a little more tightly against her side, allowing himself to be weak, to hide from the world for at least a few more moments. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Am I to take it that if I say no to training, I won't see you?
[ that's not very nice. ]
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[ because you still haven't actually told her ]
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[ would he tell her? now, that was the big question. ]
I got into an altercation. It's over and done with. That is what happened.
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[ she huffs a bit, grateful he can't see her. the dressing room is abandoned; though she doesn't say so, she starts to walk back towards the tram station, where she'll (in theory) catch a ride back towards his apartment. maybe. if he doesn't irritate her first. ]
it's fine. you don't have to tell me if you don't want to.
i just thought we weren't keeping secrets from each other.
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Early on, I told you what I didn't want to speak about when we talked about my control. Well, this man decided to speak about it. Very loudly and in my face. I didn't like it.
[ and this hadn't even been solo and his information. that had been worse. he'd been ready to kill solo. ]
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now, though, she knows she will. she won't leave him alone to deal with the wake of that kind of anger alone. ]
i remember.
[ how sharply he'd redirected her, how quick to cut off that line of questioning he'd been. she knew the emotion must be raw or repressed to trigger that kind of reaction — but she didn't know which was worse. ]
i'm sorry.
[ i'm sorry i wasn't there, she almost says, but it's not the point. her presence probably wouldn't have mattered — as far as daisy knows, anyway. ]
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[ he'd be breathing funny too. ]
I am going to take a shower but you can let yourself in if you decide to come by.
[ he'd already taken a shower. he needs another one to cool down. ]
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[ about how control was important. about how she wanted to help him master it. about how it worried her when he let go like that, anger unrestrained and unchecked. ]
i hate when you do this.
[ goddamnit. she doesn't mean to hit send, but. well. emotions get the better of her sometimes. ]
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Do what?
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that would be worse. ]
don't shut me out.
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[ he thinks that's the truth. he knows he's not an open individual but he doesn't think he's shutting her out. ]
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[ don't say "it's fine". it's not fine. you probably busted a guy's face open for throwing around made up trash talk about your mom. IT'S NOT FINE. ]
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[ does she want to know about his feelings? his family? his diagnosed anger issues? all of the above? none the above? ]
I feel fine now.
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[ illya, please. you're not an actual moron. you know what she meant. ]
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[ wrong place, wrong time, wrong topic, wrong man. put them all together and mix it up and you get one loss of control special. ]
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there are four stops left on this tram.
give me an actual answer, or i'll take the hint and leave you alone for the night.
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Some of what this...man said was true. About her. He does not know her but I do. Did. And it was not something I wanted to hear. Not from anyone. It reminds me of that time when I was weak. My partner looked up my file before we started working together. He knew everything.
I was ready to kill him.
[ hadn't but...the thought was there. ]
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[ it does not take an actual rocket scientist or even a particularly intelligent person to wonder what a fighter who lost in the ring might say about someone else's mom as trash talk. she doesn't know if he means that those sorts of comments are true or just that he doesn't want to hear someone talk about his mother that way, but she can appreciate the sore spot that family can be. she can sympathize with the blind rage it might pull from someone who hasn't had opportunity to actually deal with their emotions. ]
having emotions doesn't make you weak, illya.
it just makes you human.
if someone talked shit about my parents, i'd want to punch them too. you're not alone in those feelings.
you can talk to me about them.
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[ he's never talked about this. ever. not with anyone. he knows what his file says and he knows others are aware but he has kept that part of his life in the darkness for decades. ]
I do not know what to say.
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why does hearing someone trash talk someone they've never met or even heard of upset you? why did solo reading your file upset you?
you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. but i think it would help.
[ a beat. ]
i'll be home soon, okay?
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[ home. a good word. he wishes he were more observant to really let that word hit him but he's not. ]
I am going to shower. I'm not trying to shut you out. I just need to shower and then I will...try.
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[ and she is. or will be. becomes? by the time he's out of the shower and dried, daisy's found her way inside. there's a ritual to this: she sheds her clothes, pulls on a shirt, and finds a comfortable spot (the same one, always the same spot) on the bed to wait. ]
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but he's weak and he hasn't thought about that locked away past as much in the past few years as he has today. it's staggered him a bit. so, after he dries off and slips into a pair of shorts, he walks into the bedroom and sees here there and, well.
the normal thing would be walk around, put his towel away, kiss her hello, get some water. he does none of those things. he tosses the towel onto the dresser, uncaring if it slid off before crossing over to the bed, climbing on and laying himself on his side so he could shift closer and press his face against her hip, breathe her in, hide from the world and the words for a bit. ]
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she doesn't expect him to burrow into her, either, but she rolls with it. her body shifts to accommodate him, a hand carding into his hair, the other smoothing out across his bare shoulder and upper back in a gentle motion. just enough that he'll feel her touch, but not so much that it's a push to do anything but lay there and breathe. ]
Hey, [ soft, quiet; her nails scratch against his scalp, a gentle trail of her fingertips through his hair. ] It's okay.
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[ about his family, his past, a time he'd locked away and called unimportant. he'd been but a boy then, a slave to his emotions and unable to control himself. he'd learned how to live and survive, how to kill and maim and that had made him strong.
perhaps he was starting to learn that that wasn't exactly true. he presses his fae a little more tightly against her side, allowing himself to be weak, to hide from the world for at least a few more moments. ]
I put it away decades ago.
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