His hand bunches into a fist on the counter top and he turns away - turns away from her because he has to, because he knows that the anger coiling up in his guts doesn't belong to him and he has no right to carry it in his heart. Wrestle it back, try and breathe through it. But he can't. He can't. He can't put fires out, only stoke them and set them.
Children you lost, he doesn't say, or children you burned?
He can't sit here and listen to this. Not to this. Not to this sanctimonious bullshit. He's never been a good person, not a good anything, christ, he knows that but at least he's never pretended otherwise. He has never pretended otherwise.
"There is no escaping that. Not here, and not anywhere." He busies himself, forces himself to occupy his hands. Picking up dirtied utensils and cutlery and moving them to their designated basket with the clinks and clicks of wood on wood.
no subject
Children you lost, he doesn't say, or children you burned?
He can't sit here and listen to this. Not to this. Not to this sanctimonious bullshit. He's never been a good person, not a good anything, christ, he knows that but at least he's never pretended otherwise. He has never pretended otherwise.
"There is no escaping that. Not here, and not anywhere." He busies himself, forces himself to occupy his hands. Picking up dirtied utensils and cutlery and moving them to their designated basket with the clinks and clicks of wood on wood.