stilljustandrew (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stilljustandrew) wrote2016-10-18 07:36 pm
stilljustandrew) wrote2016-10-18 07:36 pm
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That startles him; his eyes open, and he looks at her with an expression that suggests he's waiting for the punchline.
(There's an unconscious wariness about it, as though he's expecting it to be at his expense.)
(There's an unconscious wariness about it, as though he's expecting it to be at his expense.)
Well--
"I think, just now, you're following the choices he made for you. It isn't your choice at all."
"I think, just now, you're following the choices he made for you. It isn't your choice at all."
"That I want to go back to Him," he says slowly, unsteadily. "You're saying ... it's not me, it's that H-He made me want to go back to Him?"
"You tried to escape him, before," she points out. "And he made sure you knew that it would be painful and dangerous, to you and your friends, if you tried it again."
"But," he says, and trails off.
Looking deeply troubled, and maybe a little frightened.
Looking deeply troubled, and maybe a little frightened.
Small-voiced: "But He's good to me too. He is, I, I didn't make that up."
She nods slowly.
"All right. What has he done that's good for you?"
"All right. What has he done that's good for you?"
Andrew bites his lip.
"He ... He gave me a place. Where I could feel like I belonged. Like ... like I was wanted."
"He ... He gave me a place. Where I could feel like I belonged. Like ... like I was wanted."
"I believe he made you feel that way. But at what cost?"
He's silent, for a long moment.
In a whisper: "It felt like it was worth it."
In a whisper: "It felt like it was worth it."
His face starts to crumple again, and he forces back the tears with terrible effort.
"I don't know. I --"
"If He were here --"
"I don't know. I --"
"If He were here --"
She almost points out that he isn't, but stops herself. Waits.
He lowers his head, rests his forehead on his crossed wrists; his hair spills down in front, nearly hiding the cuffs.
"If He were here," and it's a touch louder, a touch steadier, "or if I could just talk to Him, even. Then I think it would. But --"
"I'm trying to think of Him here, and remember what it feels like when I'm with Him. And it's not working. It's not enough."
"If He were here," and it's a touch louder, a touch steadier, "or if I could just talk to Him, even. Then I think it would. But --"
"I'm trying to think of Him here, and remember what it feels like when I'm with Him. And it's not working. It's not enough."
Brix hesitates a moment, then--
"If you could talk to him, he could remind you of the choices he made for you, and of the consequences of defying him. And, yes, of the rewards of obeying him."
When you are in pain and frightened, simply the cessation of pain and fear is a reward. Is it not?
She cocks her head, watching the set of his shoulders.
"What do you think it means, that when he isn't here to remind you of his glory, that you can't remember how it feels?"
"If you could talk to him, he could remind you of the choices he made for you, and of the consequences of defying him. And, yes, of the rewards of obeying him."
When you are in pain and frightened, simply the cessation of pain and fear is a reward. Is it not?
She cocks her head, watching the set of his shoulders.
"What do you think it means, that when he isn't here to remind you of his glory, that you can't remember how it feels?"
His shoulders tighten, tremble slightly.
"I don't know."
"I don't know."
"That's all right. Think about it," she suggests.
She can wait while he does.
She can wait while he does.
His head moves slightly, rubbing his eyes against one wrist.
"Maybe it's me. Or, or just ... being human. That I can't hold it in my head. I'm not ... big enough."
"Maybe it's me. Or, or just ... being human. That I can't hold it in my head. I'm not ... big enough."
"What if he's the one who isn't big enough?"
A swift intake of breath, and his head jerks up to stare at her with -- shock, yes, verging quickly into offense and anger.
But first, and clearest, a flash of stark fear.
"No."
But first, and clearest, a flash of stark fear.
"No."
Brix sits, still and impassive, meeting his gaze.
(She's as
afraid to push too hard as to push too little.)
"Don't --"
"Don't say things like that."
By the end of the sentence, it's almost a plea.
"Don't say things like that."
By the end of the sentence, it's almost a plea.
"I told you from the beginning that I would be honest."
"I -- I know, but --"
He swallows.
"I can't listen to that kind of thing. I don't want to ... get angry."
He swallows.
"I can't listen to that kind of thing. I don't want to ... get angry."
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