Her eyes are dead.
He sees it the instant she appears before him, striding with an air of faux confidence. The clicking of her braces on the marble floor only serves to show that every move now is mechanical, a heartbeat to the engine that is the embodiment therein of conflict, of war. There is nothing fluid in her, her face devoid of emotion. The cigarette in her lips wanes away, she extinguishes it, drops the dead butt into a small pouch at her side, pulls out and lights another.
She is little more than a machine, dead to the world with glazed eyes and no wit to speak of.
He understands. She has added to her body count in a way that she deems against her own twisted morals. While rare, it happens. And it always breaks her.
He knows the training she has endured, knows she is not allowed to show emotion at this time. Knows she cannot be human at this moment. He has seen it in action, used against him multiple times. If anyone in her life currently understands the turmoil beneath the surface, kept in check by clove-stick after burning clove, it is him.
His lips purse. While usually miffed at being interrupted from his work, this is a rare moment. Papers and plans are put aside carelessly, the usual meticulousness dropped for this. Her mental health is currently more important than a few basic redlines for restructuring the Slugterran Express. The current will still be fine for the few hours he sacrifices here.
He stalks forward, toward the machine, one arm embracing her about the waist to keep her steady, the other's fingers plucking the smoking cigarette from her lips. It takes a minute or two for her to process that she is no longer drawing smoke or inhaling it. Her coping mechanism has been breached. It is barely a minute longer before he feels the shift.
Rigid body gives way to a faint tremor, her breath starting to speed up. Without the cigarette in her mouth to give her mindless repetition, she loses that. There is no inhale or exhale to center around it in uniform.
Blue meets green. He's calm, stable in this crucial point. Maintaining eye contact to let her know she still exists, to remind her of his support. He sees the full break happen there.
Her eyes glint and shimmer again, lose the haze, and begin to water. Her chest heaves, face contorts in the act of receiving emotion. Her restraint is gone from her, the tether that hides it all from the world snaps.
Within seconds, it is complete. Her legs have buckled, he guides them both down to sit on the floor. He hasn't let go of her yet, letting her cling to him and move through the stages of uncontrollable weeping to ugly angry crying. She is an atrocity, and that he is still there makes her feel less of it.
But she is still human.
She is still too young to lose her emotions.
YOU ARE READING
100 Blinks
FanfictionA collection of drabbles written off a pre-existing list of 100 prompts, centered around a multitude of noncanon continuities. Some long, some short, but all addressed in one way or another.
