[ 'I'll always choose to love you—' reverberates in his skull, tingling in every atom that makes up this aching, fragile body until he's barely sure he'd even heard her correctly.
Because he certainly can't have, right? Even if his hearing is damned near superhuman, so much so that he can hear a person's heartbeat to tell if they're lying (she's not), or hear the hitch in someone's breath as though they might be trying to draw the words back in hesitation (again, she isn't)?
No, he's heard the words all right, and he hears her sentiment, and it's all from the heart. But he tells himself it's the love of childhood friends who have grown up over the years, seeing each other in their best and worst moments — and it's nothing more than that. It's true and all-encompassing, yes, but it's not —
No.
No one's ever really chosen him; that's the thing about being an orphan with one of the longest tenures at St Agnes. You hope and you hope to be chosen, until that hope eventually fades away and you work to leave on your own terms.
Nevertheless, something in his chest feels heavy and sore at the rest of his unfinished thought, but he ignores it. It's not important right now, and it's selfish, and it isn't what Wanda needs. She's clinging to him, wetting his hoodie, and he doesn't move back or shift or turn away from her but keeps his arms around her, holding her close and relishing in the warmth of her weight against him because he isn't sure how many more moments they'll have like this.
It isn't that Wanda is lying when she claims steadfastness in this moment, that much he's concluded. But whatever he decides to tell her next could change everything. Words have power; the truth has power. He knows as much defending his clients in the courthouse, whether they're innocent or not. (Of course, thankfully they generally are.)
Will she still stay in his life when she finds out how he spends his nights? When she learns that the reason he'd tumbled through her window tonight has everything to do with his frustrations with the justice system and the quiet corruption he sees in Hell's Kitchen — and how much he enjoys seeking out this physical enactment of justice? Helping people through his fists when he can't help them with his words? When the system fails them? When he feels like he fails them?
He pulls back only far enough to reach up and take his borrowed sunglasses off. He can't see her, not exactly, but he wants her to see him. He touches her cheek, thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw with exceeding gentleness, feeling wetness against her skin.
His voice is soft when he speaks. ]
At least let me explain myself before you tell me something so profound.
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[ 'I'll always choose to love you—' reverberates in his skull, tingling in every atom that makes up this aching, fragile body until he's barely sure he'd even heard her correctly.
Because he certainly can't have, right? Even if his hearing is damned near superhuman, so much so that he can hear a person's heartbeat to tell if they're lying (she's not), or hear the hitch in someone's breath as though they might be trying to draw the words back in hesitation (again, she isn't)?
No, he's heard the words all right, and he hears her sentiment, and it's all from the heart. But he tells himself it's the love of childhood friends who have grown up over the years, seeing each other in their best and worst moments — and it's nothing more than that. It's true and all-encompassing, yes, but it's not —
No.
No one's ever really chosen him; that's the thing about being an orphan with one of the longest tenures at St Agnes. You hope and you hope to be chosen, until that hope eventually fades away and you work to leave on your own terms.
Nevertheless, something in his chest feels heavy and sore at the rest of his unfinished thought, but he ignores it. It's not important right now, and it's selfish, and it isn't what Wanda needs. She's clinging to him, wetting his hoodie, and he doesn't move back or shift or turn away from her but keeps his arms around her, holding her close and relishing in the warmth of her weight against him because he isn't sure how many more moments they'll have like this.
It isn't that Wanda is lying when she claims steadfastness in this moment, that much he's concluded. But whatever he decides to tell her next could change everything. Words have power; the truth has power. He knows as much defending his clients in the courthouse, whether they're innocent or not. (Of course, thankfully they generally are.)
Will she still stay in his life when she finds out how he spends his nights? When she learns that the reason he'd tumbled through her window tonight has everything to do with his frustrations with the justice system and the quiet corruption he sees in Hell's Kitchen — and how much he enjoys seeking out this physical enactment of justice? Helping people through his fists when he can't help them with his words? When the system fails them? When he feels like he fails them?
He pulls back only far enough to reach up and take his borrowed sunglasses off. He can't see her, not exactly, but he wants her to see him. He touches her cheek, thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw with exceeding gentleness, feeling wetness against her skin.
His voice is soft when he speaks. ]
At least let me explain myself before you tell me something so profound.