[ For a moment, one fucking moment, something shifts inside him. Something clicks into place. It's the kind of recognition he feels in his chest, clawing slowly up into his throat, and once it really hits his brain it could tear through him like tissue paper.
I forgive you everything, Lord.
He could kill her. It would be kindest. He could do it so gentle, so clean, with his lips at her brow and his voice in her ear. There's no other kind thing he could do for her, at this point. There's nothing else left for them that's good.
Maybe she'd wash up as herself again, as Anna, and this woman would stay dead. Funny how much of his murder looks like running, at the end of the day. Funny how it always has.
He smooths a hand up to cup the side of her face, the pads of his fingers tracing the familiar edge of her jaw, the unfamiliar spill of her hair. He lingers at the dip of her temple. He could kill her so sweetly, but he knows how it would go: she'd just wash up again. It spits them all out like flotsam, and won't let him decide when anything should end. ]
I'd like to.
[ When she opens her eyes, John is looking at her with a horrible, searching pity, a great distance of nonrecognition; he wonders who gave her the green. ]
But— and this is awkward—
[ He drops his hand and tries to smile, but he can't manage it quite right. ]
no subject
I forgive you everything, Lord.
He could kill her. It would be kindest. He could do it so gentle, so clean, with his lips at her brow and his voice in her ear. There's no other kind thing he could do for her, at this point. There's nothing else left for them that's good.
Maybe she'd wash up as herself again, as Anna, and this woman would stay dead. Funny how much of his murder looks like running, at the end of the day. Funny how it always has.
He smooths a hand up to cup the side of her face, the pads of his fingers tracing the familiar edge of her jaw, the unfamiliar spill of her hair. He lingers at the dip of her temple. He could kill her so sweetly, but he knows how it would go: she'd just wash up again. It spits them all out like flotsam, and won't let him decide when anything should end. ]
I'd like to.
[ When she opens her eyes, John is looking at her with a horrible, searching pity, a great distance of nonrecognition; he wonders who gave her the green. ]
But— and this is awkward—
[ He drops his hand and tries to smile, but he can't manage it quite right. ]
I can't remember your name.