[L curls instinctively away from the contact, because Paul's not far-off; there is more than a little bit of a cornered, wounded animal about him. He's chewed off a paw to escape a more uncertain doom, and now his eyes are dim and wild and his breaths come quick and shallow. In spite of his weakness there's a tenseness to him that makes him harder to move; it's all he can do, since he can't just will himself to become heavier.
He looks past Paul as he works to remove the bit of crusted blood beneath his eye, the patch he hadn't even known it was there. He can't meet Paul's eyes; that would be quite impossible actually, far too much to ask, and to his relief, Paul doesn't.
I'm missing a hand, he doesn't say, partly because it's obvious and partly because his mouth is still so dry. The rest of the reason comes down to how much realer speaking it aloud will make it seem. He'll have no choice but to look where it got him and the remnants of his stinging pride are present but scattered, protecting themselves rather than inhabiting this body and all its feeble, helpless hurt.
Lycka is faded and paler than her usual strong shape shows up. She keeps her distance; she's angry with him, too, and less subtle about showing it, now that she's done what he wouldn't and asked for help.
He blinks away some of the sting he feels in unexpected, prickling places the more he processes this, his dark eyelashes brushing Paul's diligent thumb.]
No.
[The word rasps out, soft, also mostly honest.]
What I learned, if I ever needed to. I'd never keep that from you, but... I was going to pay someone to break in and replace it when I was finished. Nothing would have changed except what I knew.
[And that says so much about the way L thinks, the way he sees the world, the way he sees himself in relation to the things and people within it. It's pragmatic and chilling, the determination that as long as he moves through the world like a ghost with no lasting or apparent impact on the things around him, he is doing it the right way.
He's diminished, like this. He wants to squirm away from Paul, leaning on Lycka if he needs to. He wants to stand and crisply form a plan to fix everything, while expressing that it was never actually broken and this was all an understandable but rather unnecessary overreaction. He has moments and lapses, like anyone else, and once they're worked out he'll be right as rain. Two hands means a spare one, like two kidneys or lungs or eyes. Doesn't Paul see his tourniquet, a torn and bloody sleeve twisted around a fork? He's resourceful, and brilliant and strong. He knows how to handle himself, especially in a war, and he knows when a sacrifice is needed and doesn't resent its parting.
Why doesn't he feel any of those things, in spite of his sureness? Or is it the other way around, feeling surety in spite of being broken and chilled in this dirty abandoned hovel surrounded by his own blood?]
no subject
He looks past Paul as he works to remove the bit of crusted blood beneath his eye, the patch he hadn't even known it was there. He can't meet Paul's eyes; that would be quite impossible actually, far too much to ask, and to his relief, Paul doesn't.
I'm missing a hand, he doesn't say, partly because it's obvious and partly because his mouth is still so dry. The rest of the reason comes down to how much realer speaking it aloud will make it seem. He'll have no choice but to look where it got him and the remnants of his stinging pride are present but scattered, protecting themselves rather than inhabiting this body and all its feeble, helpless hurt.
Lycka is faded and paler than her usual strong shape shows up. She keeps her distance; she's angry with him, too, and less subtle about showing it, now that she's done what he wouldn't and asked for help.
He blinks away some of the sting he feels in unexpected, prickling places the more he processes this, his dark eyelashes brushing Paul's diligent thumb.]
No.
[The word rasps out, soft, also mostly honest.]
What I learned, if I ever needed to. I'd never keep that from you, but... I was going to pay someone to break in and replace it when I was finished. Nothing would have changed except what I knew.
[And that says so much about the way L thinks, the way he sees the world, the way he sees himself in relation to the things and people within it. It's pragmatic and chilling, the determination that as long as he moves through the world like a ghost with no lasting or apparent impact on the things around him, he is doing it the right way.
He's diminished, like this. He wants to squirm away from Paul, leaning on Lycka if he needs to. He wants to stand and crisply form a plan to fix everything, while expressing that it was never actually broken and this was all an understandable but rather unnecessary overreaction. He has moments and lapses, like anyone else, and once they're worked out he'll be right as rain. Two hands means a spare one, like two kidneys or lungs or eyes. Doesn't Paul see his tourniquet, a torn and bloody sleeve twisted around a fork? He's resourceful, and brilliant and strong. He knows how to handle himself, especially in a war, and he knows when a sacrifice is needed and doesn't resent its parting.
Why doesn't he feel any of those things, in spite of his sureness? Or is it the other way around, feeling surety in spite of being broken and chilled in this dirty abandoned hovel surrounded by his own blood?]