[He leans into that touch, giving in to her in every way he knows he shouldn't. This is dangerous for her, it has to be, in the way she had looked at him as if striken by an apparition. He's dangerous for her, in ways he knows, ways he assumes, ways he's never dreamed of.
But that comfort is there, so freely given when he still doubts his own worthiness, and he's struck by it. Is dependent on it. He wants to be stronger than this, sufficient and equally caregiving, but he isn't. He can't be.
She is, in every way he's ever meant it and ever will come to mean it, an angel. Nothing else compares.]
For what? [When he does finally find his voice, he feels so young again, impossibly overshadowed by expectations he can't understand.] You have nothing to be sorry for.
[And as far as he's concerned, she never has. Even if she knows. Even if she knows more than she says (and oh, the thought of that, when combined with what he knows of how little his children had known him; the thought dosent bear thinking and yet never goes away). None of this is her fault. How could it be?]
no subject
But that comfort is there, so freely given when he still doubts his own worthiness, and he's struck by it. Is dependent on it. He wants to be stronger than this, sufficient and equally caregiving, but he isn't. He can't be.
She is, in every way he's ever meant it and ever will come to mean it, an angel. Nothing else compares.]
For what? [When he does finally find his voice, he feels so young again, impossibly overshadowed by expectations he can't understand.] You have nothing to be sorry for.
[And as far as he's concerned, she never has. Even if she knows. Even if she knows more than she says (and oh, the thought of that, when combined with what he knows of how little his children had known him; the thought dosent bear thinking and yet never goes away). None of this is her fault. How could it be?]