[ she knows he doesn't mean 'judge' the way she takes it, knows that it doesn't carry the same connotations for him as it does for her, but it still stings. she failed her assessment, she's not going to be a judge at all.
[ she'll figure it out. figure out a way to get him to the gravity couches that doesn't include carrying or dragging him — surely there's a wheelchair somehwere that she can use. ]
I don't know any that I could ask for. What stories are there? [ she hasn't been told a great many stories. she's read about a few. ] Tell me about the others in Troy, after the jump.
[ There it is. An excuse. Roy's hands almost shake from it, and he grabs the blankets with them, almost tearing the cloth apart as he squeezes his eyes shut.
He wants to refuse. Wants to agree. Wants to do both and neither at the same time. He doesn't know what he wants anymore, and he's resentful about that. Because it's so damned easy if he just wants to die.
Then things are simple. Then there's something that he can reach for. But now life threatens to spread out in front of him, full of its complications and uncertainties and twists.
He wants to hate her for bringing it back. Like a blind man suddenly seeing light for the first time, he's blinded and in pain and he cannot breathe.
Roy tries to not sob. ]
It's in the tablet. The story of the Iliad. [ That's not what he wants to say at all. (And it's a good thing she can't see him, isn't near him, because he doesn't want her to hear.) ]
You can read it for yourself if you want to know so badly. [ A pause, and, wistfully, helplessly: ]
[ there's an excuse, but now that he's asked for help she isn't going to let him go without it. that he's reached out to her means he doesn't really want to die in the jump, doesn't it? so she'll figure it out and she will make him go through the jump and if he takes it all back now, if he refuses her help, she will do it anyway. ]
I want you to tell me.
[ she can read the stories. maybe she will — she likes reading and it isn't as though she has so much to do here that she couldn't find the time. she prefers contact, though, the presence of others. he reached out to her and in many ways, this is her reaching back — asking him to tell her stories is as much for his as it is for her own benefit. ]
[ He can't help it. Please, she says, and there's this small part of him that soaring, rejoicing. Someone wants you alive badly enough to beg for it, it says, and Roy nearly sobs because it's damned painful, the hope that blooms in his chest, nearly breaking his heart because there's no space for it. It's so filled with despair. ]
I- [ He breaks off, sobs once. ] I hate you.
[ He doesn't. And he thinks she knows that too. He takes a long, shuddering breath. ]
[ there's a part of her that wants to protest. saying please isn't begging, she's not begging — but she wants him to live and she wants him to tell her the stories at the very least because it'll mean that he'll live and if it means saying please over and over again until it becomes begging? she's not above that.
he's crying and somehow that's far worse than anything he could say. she's heard those words before and she's heard people mean them — he doesn't, and so the words don't sting. ]
I'll be there in two hours. [ enough time to figure things out. enough time to get him to the pod well before the jump. hopefully not enough time for him to change his mind again. ]
No. [ The words blurt out of him, and now the words come muffled, as if he's shoved blankets into his mouth to stifle himself. ]
Come- come sooner. Before I- [ before I change my mind, he thinks.
Because he might not be able to walk, but he can crawl onto the floor and hide in a closet or something in two hours. He knows he can, and he knows he wants to.
[ she opens her mouth and closes it again when she realises she isn't entirely certain how to answer that, what to say. before what? but she can imagine.
in the end, there's only one thing to say, really. ] Okay.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ A little dryly. But he's replying, answering her, and maybe that's more hopeful than he should be. ]
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pushing that down: ] Or that.
What can I do?
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What other stories would you like to hear?
[ There's desperation in his tone. Whether it's a desperation to be convinced or not to be, not even he is sure anymore. ]
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I don't know any that I could ask for. What stories are there? [ she hasn't been told a great many stories. she's read about a few. ] Tell me about the others in Troy, after the jump.
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He wants to refuse. Wants to agree. Wants to do both and neither at the same time. He doesn't know what he wants anymore, and he's resentful about that. Because it's so damned easy if he just wants to die.
Then things are simple. Then there's something that he can reach for. But now life threatens to spread out in front of him, full of its complications and uncertainties and twists.
He wants to hate her for bringing it back. Like a blind man suddenly seeing light for the first time, he's blinded and in pain and he cannot breathe.
Roy tries to not sob. ]
It's in the tablet. The story of the Iliad. [ That's not what he wants to say at all. (And it's a good thing she can't see him, isn't near him, because he doesn't want her to hear.) ]
You can read it for yourself if you want to know so badly. [ A pause, and, wistfully, helplessly: ]
There are so many stories in the world.
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I want you to tell me.
[ she can read the stories. maybe she will — she likes reading and it isn't as though she has so much to do here that she couldn't find the time. she prefers contact, though, the presence of others. he reached out to her and in many ways, this is her reaching back — asking him to tell her stories is as much for his as it is for her own benefit. ]
Please.
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[ He can't help it. Please, she says, and there's this small part of him that soaring, rejoicing. Someone wants you alive badly enough to beg for it, it says, and Roy nearly sobs because it's damned painful, the hope that blooms in his chest, nearly breaking his heart because there's no space for it. It's so filled with despair. ]
I- [ He breaks off, sobs once. ] I hate you.
[ He doesn't. And he thinks she knows that too. He takes a long, shuddering breath. ]
Fine. Christ, fine.
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he's crying and somehow that's far worse than anything he could say. she's heard those words before and she's heard people mean them — he doesn't, and so the words don't sting. ]
I'll be there in two hours. [ enough time to figure things out. enough time to get him to the pod well before the jump. hopefully not enough time for him to change his mind again. ]
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Come- come sooner. Before I- [ before I change my mind, he thinks.
Because he might not be able to walk, but he can crawl onto the floor and hide in a closet or something in two hours. He knows he can, and he knows he wants to.
He knows far too well how much he wants to. ]
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in the end, there's only one thing to say, really. ] Okay.
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