Then why does wanting you safe make me the bad guy here?
[ he doesn't answer. maybe he doesn't have an answer. maybe the answer isn't a good one. or maybe he just doesn't want to say what the answer is.
as it turns out, illya's near foot of height advantage means he towers over her, and the bulk of his shoulders gives him easy access to manhandle her — but it doesn't mean she likes it. being whirled around on her feet via an uninvited grip on her elbow leaves daisy feeling off-balance and furious about it to boot; by the time her head whips up to face him, a glare all but wipes away the sadness lingering in her eyes. ]
Get off. [ spit out syllable after syllable, her entire arm yanking away hard enough to leave a sharp ache just above her shoulder blade. bodies aren't meant to move that way. a wince colors her expression before she can manage to school her features back into the firm line of rage she's practicing. ] We don't have to talk about anything.
[ it's easier to be angry than it is to be sad, easier to lash out than it is to admit she's hurt by his admissions. but being angry means being loud, and as daisy's free hand reaches up to rub at her now sore shoulder, the sound of a child's voice breaks through the awkward silence between them. what's that?, they ask, and her gaze snaps — that happens to be a matte black disc floating in the distance. the device rotates side-to-side, a thin red spread of laser light skimming over the open windows in a nearby apartment building. a drone, daisy realizes, a chill running down the back of her neck.
they have to move. ]
Pick them up. [ he hears her, but he doesn't move immediately, so daisy repeats herself, voice shrill in urgency. ] Illya! Pick them up!
We have to lose it before we go inside, or — [ or the safehouse is compromised. or everyone who's been brought to safety will be lost, and it'll be all her fault. ] Where do we go?
no subject
[ he doesn't answer. maybe he doesn't have an answer. maybe the answer isn't a good one. or maybe he just doesn't want to say what the answer is.
as it turns out, illya's near foot of height advantage means he towers over her, and the bulk of his shoulders gives him easy access to manhandle her — but it doesn't mean she likes it. being whirled around on her feet via an uninvited grip on her elbow leaves daisy feeling off-balance and furious about it to boot; by the time her head whips up to face him, a glare all but wipes away the sadness lingering in her eyes. ]
Get off. [ spit out syllable after syllable, her entire arm yanking away hard enough to leave a sharp ache just above her shoulder blade. bodies aren't meant to move that way. a wince colors her expression before she can manage to school her features back into the firm line of rage she's practicing. ] We don't have to talk about anything.
[ it's easier to be angry than it is to be sad, easier to lash out than it is to admit she's hurt by his admissions. but being angry means being loud, and as daisy's free hand reaches up to rub at her now sore shoulder, the sound of a child's voice breaks through the awkward silence between them. what's that?, they ask, and her gaze snaps — that happens to be a matte black disc floating in the distance. the device rotates side-to-side, a thin red spread of laser light skimming over the open windows in a nearby apartment building. a drone, daisy realizes, a chill running down the back of her neck.
they have to move. ]
Pick them up. [ he hears her, but he doesn't move immediately, so daisy repeats herself, voice shrill in urgency. ] Illya! Pick them up!
[ don't panic don't panic don't panic. more importantly, don't cry. ]
We have to lose it before we go inside, or — [ or the safehouse is compromised. or everyone who's been brought to safety will be lost, and it'll be all her fault. ] Where do we go?