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Entry tags:

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Who: Lavellan, Frisk, Shepard
When: raspberry noise, sometime between demon plot and memory plot
Where: Casa de Sadcat
What: Lavellan has some questions about stuff nobody will give him a straight answer on! This will definitely go 100% well!
Warnings: Probable discussions of brainwashing, Undertale's general everything

[ frisk | go the fuck to sleep ]

[He hadn't sought Frisk out on purpose; if he had, he certainly wouldn't have done it during the small hours of the night, when he'd much rather have been asleep, and when he'd never expected a child like Frisk to be awake.

But his sleep had been fitful ever since he'd returned from Kaittos. He'd thought to blame it on the demon, but that was over and done with and still he was having difficulties. He'd wandered into the kitchen to see if the problem was simply hunger, and there they were.

He stops short at the sight of them for a few moments, surprised. He'd thought he was the only one awake.]

What are you doing up?

[ shepard | the road to hell etc. ]

[Shepard, he had encountered on purpose.

Or, rather, he'd been on the watch for her over the past several days, ever since his... run-ins with Chara and Rinzler. He's not sure why her in particular, except that she's sensible as well as the unofficial head of household, and one of the few people he knows who is familiar with everyone involved. Or maybe there's another reason that tells him she's the one to ask, but he can't put his finger on it and so doesn't dwell on it.

There's a lot of feelings like that he's preferring not to dwell on, recently.

It's fittingly at their lodgings that they run into each other. Whatever Shepard is doing, he can only hope she's not busy, because the longer this goes on the more agitated he's getting. He holds up a hand by way of greeting, trying to look casual despite the anxiety churning in his gut.]

Oh, hello. I've been meaning to talk to you. Is now a good time?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Frisk startles slightly when Lavellan speaks, turning around to look up at him in confusion. Their stuffed rabbit, now usually kept safe in their room, is under their arm while the other hand is reaching into the fridge for...well, for something. There's still not a terrible lot to be had on the station, even with the trading that had been done.]

...couldn't sleep.

[It's simple enough, innocent enough, and...well, really they can't get around that fact. They don't really want to be up, but they are and they know from experience that sleep won't come easily--or be very restful.]

Whatta 'bout you?

[In response, Lavellan smiles thinly, a little weakly.]

More or less the same.

[Instead of leaving, like maybe he ought to, he sits at the small table at the common area, close enough to be able to speak softly and still be heard. Simply leaving them alone didn't seem right.]

Any particular reason?

Dunno. Just couldn't.

[The lie slips out easily, brushing past the issue with a casual air--it's not an issue, so why make it one? Frisk starts to close the fridge, but pauses before grabbing a fruit to hand over to Lavellan.]

Eating helps me sometimes.

[He takes it almost automatically, because it would be rude not to. His own insomnia isn't exactly because of hunger, and he doubts Frisk's is either, knowing what he does about where they come from.

Saying so would require emotional vulnerability, though, and we can't have that. So he chooses the indirect approach.]

Well, while we're both awake, do you mind if I ask you something?

[He pauses, and then decides it's better to be forthcoming.]

Something not... necessarily pleasant.

'Course.

[Frisk looks up at Lavellan, their expression settling into a calm and open sort of feeling; the sort of friend you can tell anything to, that you know will help you with anything you ask.]

What is it?

[He takes a while to put his thoughts together, unsure how exactly to ask. From the way Sans and Chara spoke of this, it isn't a topic to be discussed lightly. And Frisk is the last person he'd want to burden with something like this.

But he doesn't know who else to ask.]

Do you know what LOVE is?

[He can only hope what he really means is clear from his tone.]

[...ah.]

[Their expression shifts ever so slightly; a faint line between their brows, a subtle downward tug at the corners of their mouth. Frisk nods, bowing their head as they recite:]

A way of measuring someone's capacity to hurt. The more you kill, the easier it becomes to distance yourself. The more you distance yourself, the less you will hurt. The more easily you can bring yourself to hurt others.

[They remember it's touch, how it became easier and easier to push away the regret, the pain. How much easier it became to justify the unjustifiable with every swing of their weapon, be it Stick or Pan or Shoe. Sometimes they pushed away from that empty feeling, resisted it, but others...when the pain became too much, it had been a cruel comfort, but a comfort none-the-less.]

[As always, it's disquieting when someone as young as Frisk speaks so frankly of such things.

But he won't condescend by saying so. He'd figured they'd know; that's why he asked.

He kneels, so that he won't tower over them, won't impose. He brings himself very deliberately to their level, and keeps his voice even.]

What is the purpose of measuring such a thing?

[Even though he kneels, Frisk does not raise their head. Eyes remain shuttered behind thick, unkempt bangs, and their voice though soft remains unusually clear.]

To know how dangerous the Human has become. It measures the increase of numbers...HP, ATK, DEF. It's how you know what Ending you have earned.

[He can only stare at them blankly for a good moment.

This conversation is already proving to be much more complicated than he'd ever have expected.]

I'm afraid I don't know what any of those mean.

[There's no verbal answer. Instead, she simply raises an eyebrow, inclining her head for him to continue. It's not a bad time.

It's simply that there's a toothbrush in her mouth.

Gesturing her hand for continuation, she weaves around him to the kitchen, fishing a mug out of the cupboard and filling it with water, eyes watching him expectantly.]

[Perhaps he'd subconsciously chosen to engage her at a moment that she couldn't properly respond to him, because suddenly he feels fear gnawing at his gut now that he's finally broached the subject.

And suddenly he finds himself faltering on the words, like he hadn't rehearsed his question over and over before approaching her.

He looks away from her and huffs out a breathy laugh, almost in place of an apology for ambushing her.]

Have I...

[He stops, swallows, tries again. He has no idea how to ask this after all.]

Did I--

[Spit it out.]

Have I... forgotten anything?

[Taking a gulp of water from the cup, she swishes it around in her mouth, considering her answer. She'd avoided saying anything immediately, instead opting to watch, wait, see exactly how much was missing. Chara had laid out the task, the structure—she'd been biding her time, waiting for the crack.

No reason to beat around the bush, now.

Spitting the wash back into her mug, Shepard wipes her mouth off with the back of her hand, and nods.]

Yes.

But you already know that. You're looking for confirmation. And how much.

[He inhales sharply. Then looks away.

Of course he'd suspected as much. She's right; he wouldn't be here, asking for affirmation, if he hadn't. But it is one thing to suspect and quite another to have it confirmed by someone whose judgment you trust.

It's like being hit in the face. For a few moments, he just lets himself reel.]

Yes.

[How the fuck does he ask her about this? It's a question even he doesn't know the depth of.]

Chara and Rinzler both... [Expected him to be different? Challenged him about what he understood to be correct about his universe? One, at least, was more articulate than the other.]

Chara asked me about the intermediaries. But I only know what everyone else does. About the simulation.

[Doesn't he?]

[For a long moment she stares at him, considering her avenues, branching lines of reasoning arching off into the distance. Dumping the mug into the sink, she rinses it, looking askance at Lavellan, expression oddly muted, tone even.]

I had a run-in with the intermediaries.

Do you remember that?

[He blinks, gaze slightly unfocused, staring past her, as if he's trying to recall a moment from years ago rather than mere months.]

--Yes.

[He doesn't quite sound sure of himself.]

You were gone for six weeks.

[The pause is enough to deepen her look, a sharpening of intensity.]

Right.

And what happened after that?

[He is very good at schooling himself so as not to react in surprise.

It's a trained habit. It didn't do to be caught off guard as Inquisitor; even less to to make it obvious that you were. So he doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound, doesn't let his expression change--it might be enough to make someone think the question hadn't struck its target, if not for a slight quickening of his breath, a further wavering of his line of sight.]

I don't know what you mean. [His throat is dry and his voice sounds false even to him.] Nothing happened after that.

[Replacing the mug on the counter with a ringing tap, she walks, gesturing him to follow her.]

Something did.

What's the next thing you remember? After I got put away.

What happened when I got out?

[Sliding Lavellan's own bedroom door open, she steps aside to let him enter ahead of her.]

[He follows after her almost mechanically, like he doesn't really comprehend what is happening or what Shepard is doing. He doesn't even seem to notice that they've changed surroundings, as lost as he is in his own thoughts.]

You--

[The more he lingers on this, he more he brushes up against something dark and raw that he balks at. It's frustrating in itself, because he's never been one to give in to fear. But this is a line he isn't capable of crossing just yet.

And just that feeling, of knowing you're right against something important but not able to take the steps necessary to get there, is--infuriating.

It's essentially a fact now: someone or something fucked with his head. Whatever his instincts, he isn't going to let this go until he's wrung out all the truth that he can.]

Obviously you know. Why don't you just tell me?

[Once he's in, she keys the door shut, and leans back against it, watching him strain against his own memories—or lack thereof. It's a brush, then a push, then a shove, and she can see the frustration building behind his eyes.]

Of course I do—but this isn't about what I know just yet. Tell me what you remember. As much as you can.

[The look he gives her is nearly murderous... but then he backs off and complies. He does trust Shepard, for better or worse, and if she wants to drag it out this way then there must be a reason for it.

But the harder he thinks the more he just gets agitated. He begins to pace as he tries to concentrate, carding his hand through his hair, mouthing something to himself like he's trying to recall something memorized.

If Shepard is canny enough, the problem will become obvious: on some level, Lavellena is scared to remember. There is a part of himself that instinctively pulls back the moment he gets too close. It isn't a coincidence that he's made himself forget this.

But the rest of him, his conscious self, doesn't recognize this, it doesn't understand. So he just paces, warring with himself.]

I--

[It comes out in a whisper. This is a conversation with himself; Shepard might as well not even be in the room.]

I did--I did something. What did I do?

[She watches him pace, silently, taking in the agitation, the frustration—and the retreat, every time he seems to close in. Lavellan's mouth opens and closes like a landed fish, a flash of reluctance, reticence, fear.

It would be so easy to tell him. To grab him, shake him, yell into his face his stupid damn decision. To rake him through it, shove his nose in the reality of his choice.

But would it stick?

Shepard nods, patiently, eyes never leaving his face.]

You did something. You had good intentions—but the Intermediaries didn't agree.

[Nor had she, once she'd delved the depths of it—but that was neither here nor there.]

[He stops pacing. Looks down in focus. Breathes. In and out, in and out, like someone preparing to do something very painful. Like pulling a knife out of a wound so that it can bleed.

Then he remembers a flash of something--his own sword carving through machinery--and then more of it follows in a cascade. It's all a jumble, an incoherent mess of sensations and impressions and feelings in no real order, but it's enough to make the ends connect. Enough for a spark of realization.]

I did something terrible.

[It's the admission of someone numb with shock, who hasn't processed the weight of their own words. But that is the truth, isn't it, he's sure of it now. This is what he'd made himself forget, because he knows somehow now that this is his fault as well: he'd committed a grave crime.

Is that what this was all about? Running from that? He couldn't take responsibility for himself?]

Wasn't great, [she admits, inclining her head.] But it wasn't irreversible, either. Just a matter of accepting it, doing what's within your ability to fix, and moving forward.

[For a moment, she just lets whatever he's regained re-connect, synapses knitting back together, weighing out her own discoveries. The forests of Kaittos hadn't erased the memories. Everything was there, intact, held back by his own desperate need to forget. It was a matter, now, of how to mete it out proportionately, step by step—and make sure he didn't fall apart when each piece connected to the others.]

What happened after that?

[He'd sat down on the hammock at some point, where he's kneading his temples with the heels of his hands like he can squeeze out understanding that way. He remembers--isolation. Lessons. A woman looking at him with pity.

He actually laughs, almost. So that's why Chara was asking him about them.]

I went to mediation therapy.

[See? It's funny, because of course he did. How did he not figure it out before now? Whatever his feelings on that memory, it's clear remembering it is a lot less shocking than the previous revelation. You commit a crime, the intermediaries talk to you. It's just cause and effect.]

Right. Same as me. [Except he had bought it wholesale.]

Do you remember talking to me about it? Talking to anyone about it?

[Pulling away from the door, she advances towards him slowly, still watchful of his own mnemonics for attempting to pull out what he's missing. That it was going smoothly at all was a blessing—one she hardly expected to last.

He'd meant to drink the water, after all.]

Sort of.

[Whatever agitation had been in his voice seems to be gone. Mediation, apparently, isn't an idea he's particularly distressed by.

In fact, if anything, he's somewhat confused that Shepard seems to be focusing on this particular issue. Haven't they already uncovered what he was trying to forget?]

I don't think I spoke to anyone in detail. Why do you ask?

[Oh. Boy.]

So you think you just went from mediation to the simulation, nothing in between?

That you never talked to anyone about it in detail.

[The apartment. The En-Line. The shadows.]

You know why I'm asking.

No, no. [He's shaking his head.]

I didn't mean it like that. I remember speaking with you about it, and you were trying to convince me that they'd lied to me, or--something along those lines.

[Why are they still talking about this? Aren't they done? Isn't it enough that that he remembers what he did and that he'd tried to run from it? He's suddenly tired, and if he has to dwell on this then he'd rather do it alone.]

So did most everyone else I spoke with, but I never really told anyone about it.

[Everyone just assumed he'd been manipulated and lied to, and reacted accordingly. Because if he had given the details, then they would know that the intermediaries hadn't lied at all, wouldn't they, and he wouldn't be able to keep up the illusion that he could be a good person, that he could change and grow and learn from his mistakes. The illusion that he could be worth something.]

Really? Because you told me you killed me.

[Still advancing, line of sight locked on his, she continues unrelenting.]

You told me you couldn't sleep, when you were there. That you woke up—or thought you woke up, and something else was happening. You told me you couldn't tell the difference between your reality, and theirs.

[Stopping in front of him, she crosses her arms.]

And you told me you went back. Because everyone you met after you went to the centre told you the same thing—that what you believed, what they'd forced into your mind, wasn't real, and you didn't know where else to turn. They had you so turned around, you were pushing away anyone who thought you didn't deserve what you got—hell, you're still doing it now.

You think you're all wrapped up?

[There's a notable drop in the temperature of her tone, a sharp, cold obsidian edge.]

We haven't even started.

[He jerks up to meet her gaze, eyes narrowing, shoulders tensing, fire in his voice to match the ice in hers. It's a change as sudden as Shepard's own.]

I'm not defending them. I'm not saying anything they did was right.

[He can hear the "but" in his own voice and, just briefly, it makes him waver. And he takes a deep breath before he continues, because this--this is something he doesn't like to say aloud, knowing the kind of reaction it gets.]

But what makes you think I didn't? [Deserve what I got, he doesn't say. At least his voice doesn't crack over the words.]

So you do remember that. [Or at least, he does now. Step by step.

If there's any reaction to to his sudden blaze, there's nothing outward. The heat slides off her without a drop of meltwater, and she gestures to him in turn—a quick, pointed flick.]

Do you honestly think you deserved to be tortured? That anyone does? To have your own mind turned against you, changed against your will? I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, Lavellan. [The whispers of the Reapers, the deceit of friends, of self—first-hand knowledge of a pain and madness far beyond anything the mind could contemplate. From that, there was no return—their one blessing had been the Intermediaries own mortal organics. A knowable, defeatable enemy. But still nothing she'd want anyone else to experience.]

Did you hurt someone? A town? A world? A star system? Doesn't matter. You can face your own issues and work them out, one after another, but you can't find forgiveness or answers in destroying yourself, no matter who's doing it. And every time you say "but"? You're backing them up. Because you're scared that if you stop defending them? You'll have to go back to finding your own answer.

So keep going. Dig up every last thing you thought it was better to forget, until you remember why you did—and then, we can move forward.

[He balks, stiffening, reeling back in indignation both at her choice of words--to his understanding, "torture" involves pain, and they hadn't laid a finger on him (is that what they'd done to her? is that the source of this failure to see eye to eye?)--and instinctively, at the audacity of a human telling him what he ought to know and ought to think. That he's never had a reason to doubt Shepard's integrity is the only thing that gets him to bite his tongue.]

I'm not looking for forgiveness. This isn't that complicated.

[He's trying to keep his voice calm, but his anger is still rising. He has never, ever taken well to people acting like they know better than he does.]

Let me put this to you another way. You and Chara have had dealings with them as well. Nate and Ginko too. [He's never exchanged more than a few words with the latter two, but he's picked up enough just from living in the same area. And he isn't an idiot.]

I don't know what that's been like for you. I don't know what they said or what you saw or what effect that's had. But I know that you're recovering. Chara is recovering. It might be slowly, but the rest are all recovering.

I'm not. [Here the note in his voice becomes desperate, almost panicked. This isn't something he's admitted to anyone, and he knows that by exposing himself this way risks more injury for himself. Even if Shepard would be the last he'd expect to do it.]

There has to be a reason, doesn't there? Has it occurred to you that the reason is I'm the only one who wasn't told a lie?

[His eyes burn. His voice breaks. He wants to scream.]

I'll ask you something, now. Why do you think I really attacked the Ingress?

Because Cole somehow felt what was going on, and told you. Because you felt like you should do something. Because you were looking for a sense of purpose.

[Because you wanted to go charging in, damn any plans or consequences, she bites back. Because you wanted to make a difference in the only way you knew how. It seemed to be a familiar household refrain.]

What if the reason you've been stuck for longer isn't because you weren't lied to, but because the lie was so good, you haven't heard a truth yet that can top it? Did you go in there, thinking you were in the right before they told you you were in the wrong? Or did they ask you the question, then answer it themselves? They already had all the ammunition they needed—straight from your own head. Your own failings and fears, free to throw back in your face as they pleased.

[There's a beat as she exhales, a subtle softening of edges.]

What if what you're looking for is something as simple as hearing why you're not a terrible person, with a little evidence to back it up?

Edited 2017-12-26 07:33 (UTC)

[For a moment he just stops, hangs there, open uncertainty--even desperation--written all over his face. He wants to be convinced. He does. But then he breaks off, pulls back, retreats back into his battered little shell.]

No. You said it yourself, I was looking for a sense of purpose.

[But his voice is much less steady now, much less convinced. He's back to the pacing, the restlessness, sounding as much like he's talking to himself as to Shepard.]

It's selfishness. That's why I do everything, I'm--I'm selfish. Everything I've done has been for me, not anyone else, no matter how much I want to think otherwise. It's why I--everything with the Inquisition--

[He stops, shakes himself, and keeps going. But he's fully unraveling, now, falling apart by the second.]

It's why I--made myself forget, why I drink, why I'm cruel to everyone who just wants to help--I'm not stupid, all right, I know the way I've been acting is--

[Breathe. He's getting incoherent. He needs to calm down, but he can't, he can't, it's all tumbling out in a waterfall, everything he's been telling himself for months but could never make himself say aloud.]

I don't understand why--any of you care, you shouldn't, but you do, and all I do is hurt the people around me, I keep doing it and I can't--I can't stop.

[And there it is.

He stops now, surprised by his own words, but his shoulders sag as if he's just put down something heavy. Finally, he turns back to Shepard, something raw in his expression. Something searching.]

I can't stop. That's selfishness, isn't it?

[It isn't an argument. It's a real, honest question.]

[For a long beat, she leaves the question hanging in the air, watching his expression—pulled and raw, pained and pleading. She didn't know enough—simply didn't know enough to refute what he'd decided was a trend that ran through his whole life's story.

Leveling her line of sight directly into his, she holds it for a minute, and plays what she has.]

Then look me in the eyes, Lavellan, and tell me why you tried to rescue Chara in the first place.

[Before he can object, answer, she's already speaking again.] You fight constantly. They've pushed you away time after time—you shouldn't care, by your own logic. But you did—and you do.

Everyone has their weaknesses, flaws—but they also have strengths. You might not think they count for much, but to others? They do. You're more than the sum of your parts, Lavellan.

Because they're a child. Regardless of how they act, they deserve better, they still--have time to change.

[Strengths. What strengths. He wants to believe her. He really, truly wants to believe her. For a second he nearly lets himself, allows himself to just take her at her word, because he's just so tired of going in circles and he's tired of this conversation and at least it would give him peace for a while. But he knows it won't last; eventually something will happen to tear a hole in the story she's telling, and he'll make a disaster of himself all over again.

He understands himself this well: he is a stubborn son of a bitch, and he's never put stock in mere words. Anyone can say whatever they want, and that doesn't make it true. That goes for him, for Shepard, for the intermediaries. Assertions need proof.

Shepard can convince him. He wants Shepard to be able to convince him, because he's so fucking tired of being miserable. But he won't truly believe her unless the universe can back up her story.

He sits back down at the edge of his bed, and steeples his fingers, and looks away, the figure of contemplation.]

I don't know if good intentions count as a strength, Shepard.

[She's reaching the end of her rope—in terms of options remaining, and patience—but it's when he sniffs at good intentions that she riles.

In what amounts to enough time for a nervous heartbeat, she's in his personal space, expression twisted into something resembling fury, closer to frustration.]

The hell are you talking about? Good intentions are all some people can have, sometimes! You think any civilian caught in between you and whatever you came up against in your world had a chance? But I bet when it came down to it, they still picked up weapons and tried to fight—even knowing they wouldn't make it!

Each and every single day, we make a choice. We can sit around, thinking about our mistakes, our flaws, our weaknesses—or we can push forward, overwrite them, prove that we're more than our failings! And you think that giving people another chance, working with everyone's best intentions in mind, protecting people as much and whenever you can is somehow a mark against you? A reason to stop?

You led an army, commanded a team that trusted you enough to let you choose between life and death, and now you're going to let a bunch of people who flipped you inside-out and cherrypicked what they found tell you who you really are?

[The space between them opens again, Shepard pulling back into her own, while seemingly almost superimposed into the room, larger-than-life. Left hand in a fist, her right shoots through the air severing it, striking her point.]

Good intentions count for a lot when your actions back them up, time and time again. You want to know why no one agrees with the Intermediaries' opinion? Because everyone already knows who you are—we're just waiting for you to catch up.

I never wanted them to!

[He's on his feet again before he knows it, closing the distance that Shepard had just widened; in her face, desperate, wanting to make her see. It's a fire like he'd had moments ago, but it's not anger moving him now.]

I never asked. I'm not worth it. I'm not anyone--I'm not worth that.

[He isn't special. He isn't divine, he's not chosen or blessed. He has no more right to exist than anyone who gave their life for this. Maybe less, because they felt they were dying for something bigger than themselves.

They weren't. It shouldn't be them who were dead. How could he possibly live up to what they thought they'd died for? And Shepard, maybe inadvertently, cut straight to the heart.

Who was he to make these decisions? They all died, good people, for entirely the wrong reasons. For him.

He registers, distantly, that his breathing is hitched and uneven. That his cheeks are damp. When had that happened?]

That's not who I am. Everyone--everyone's wrong. They're wrong about me.

[About him being the Herald. About him being the Inquisitor. About him being a good person. He's none of those things, he's not he's not he's not. Stop killing yourselves on his behalf, for fuck's sake.]

Lavellan.

[Unmoved, Shepard's face is next to his, every scar, freckle, blemish and tattoo stark visible for both of them, every crack a canyon close-up. There is no shift in posture or language, despite the rally—just a drop in tone. At once both a distant whisper and an adjacent roar, each word drops like a slab, fracturing the space between.

It's a familiar refrain, after all.]

You're worthy of kindness. You're worthy of patience. And you're worthy of friends—your friends.

Everyone has their own free will. Everyone could have chosen otherwise, no matter what you think kept them tied to your side. But you're not pulling the wool over anyone's eyes. Everyone has always known who you are—and they've stayed.

We've stayed.

[He doesn't move.

He doesn't react at all. It's almost, for a moment, like he didn't hear her, like her words washed by like water against so much stone.

But then he sags. There's little he can say in the face of Shepard's conviction, almost a force of nature of its own. He can't say she's right, but he can't quite say she's wrong, either, when she says it like that.

So he holds his head like he's fighting a headache, and he just says:]

All right.

[It's a concession, as small as it is. It's not a complete one, but it's enough--enough that at least he'll listen. He can't promise that he'll believe her, but he can promise that he'll try.

He's a fucking wreck, because of course he is, and all he wants to do is apologize for always doing this over and over again, always being so pathetic, but that's just the same problem once more, isn't it. And if Shepard is trying so hard, then he can at least have faith that she has a reason, even if he can't see what it is.

It's too much to put into words, so all he can do is nod, feeling wrung out, and hope she understands.]

All right. All right. I'll try.

[Try what, he doesn't say, because there isn't any single thing. Try to believe her, try to keep going. Just try.]

[She wants him to do a lot more than try. She wants him to fight, kicking and screaming, the way he'd come at her, against the forces he binds himself with.

But for now... try was good. Try was better than what they had, mere moments before. Try was better than forget.

And wasn't it always just so much easier to spit rhetoric, being on the outside of a mind, looking in? ]

Good. [And then:] That's about as much as anyone can ask for, right now.

[He huffs another breath that isn't quite a laugh, and sits down heavily, his gaze still hidden by the hand in front of his eyes, a shield in its own way.

There's too much he's feeling to put into words, emotions welling up in his throat, near his jaw, threatening to overwhelm him. So he waits until he's mostly settled, and then he blurts out:]

Can I ask you a question?

[He doesn't wait for an answer, instead forging right ahead. It's giving a voice to something he's wondered, dwelt on, for months.

He's afraid of the answer, afraid of what further weakness it will expose in him. But he still needs to ask.]

Why didn't you believe them? [The way that he did.]

[It's not a long pause, as Lavellan gathers himself up again. But it's long enough that she almost asks if he'd like her to go—when the question tumbles out.

Why didn't you believe them?

The query subtly insinuates itself into her mind in the same way a fist to the solar plexus doesn't. But she can already hear herself answering it, with barely a missed beat, even as a the roar of blood, pain, and memories reach her senses--]

Because it wasn't true.

It was the only weapon I had.

[To her credit—by force of sheer determined iron will—her expression never changes, even as the visions strobe, as her focus goes distant, barely able to see the man in front of her. A thick layer of confident capability built up so strong, so tough and reliable you could bend tungsten around it, even as the core melts down, molten liquid spilling into her gut, burning through, burning down--

Like hell she was going to pass out here.

So, like a shipwreck survivor in a sea of fire, she rides out each superheated wave, waiting for it to end, to be over. She gives Lavellan an incline of her head, a gentle look through the haze, into the calm, mind still screaming at gale force.]

[He doesn't know what to make of that.

Shepard doesn't do or say anything wrong, but there's a certain subtle difference in her movements that makes him tense, makes his focus sharpen on her without knowing why.

And before he can figure out what it is, it passes.

There's a part of him that wants to press simply for curiosity's sake, the same kind of impulse that wants to put pressure on a crack in a glass window just to see if he can make it larger. But he doesn't, because Shepard is not a glass window but a person who has been kind to him at her own expense when she had no obligation to. And because he's already feeling fragile enough, precarious enough that it might be him who cracks with the attempt.

So instead he gives her a thin quirk of his lips, not quite a smile, a statement of if that's all it took, what does that say about me that he manages not to verbalize. A testament to his own willpower, because what stops him is he promised her he'd try and like fuck he's going to fall apart at the first hurdle, even when everything in him screams to believe it.

Instead he steeples fingers as if in thought and tries not to sound bitter.]

Commendable.

[There's no reaction, no twitch or tell, much less a response. Whatever he projected, non-verbal or otherwise, seems to evaporate as soon as it meets her, steaming away like so much water in a frying pan.

Instead, she says:]

I should go.

Got a few other things to finish up around today, and I'm sure you'd like a little time to yourself.

You can leave whenever you want.

[He hates himself for the acidic harshness of it, after everything Shepard has just done for him. But for the life of him he can't tamp down the bile. Shepard can just come and flay him open and then leave as if it was any other duty, any other chore, with no difference to herself and him with his world turned upside down. Like it was so easy.

It isn't easy. And a horrible part of him wants to make her bleed like he's bled, wants to pull at the seam he's found until it rips her wide open. Wants to know he isn't alone in this pain.

But he's better than that. Isn't he? He should be.

So he doesn't. He just lets it hang, and prays Shepard will accept it on the surface and leave him with he guilt of knowing otherwise.]

Okay.

[It would have been impossible for any adult standing upright, regardless of species, to miss the dripping tang of anger, hurt, pain from the words—but there's no reaction.

Nothing at all.

Instead, she gives him another look, a nod, and turns to the door, sliding it open--]

Let me know if you need anything else.

[--and closed.

And she's out. It's only small steps to walk, turn, make it to her own room, lock the door with her own biometrics—but it seems to stretch, each motion as fast as molasses in a snowstorm.

She barely makes it to the bed before her vision cuts completely, fire overcoming, capsizing her mind, alarm klaxons screaming as hot winds howl through, scouring her raw from within. Her head hits the pillow as everything goes black.

Black.

...Silver.

Shepard dreams.

But she does not wake up.]

Edited 2018-01-22 07:51 (UTC)

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6jgam2XbJA

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