[The last time he'd touched another person with any kind of sincerity was when he'd helped her stand up and face the Citadel — alive, victorious, ready to create a new Green Place that could thrive without the corruption that had soured it all those years. Being taken back to that moment where they'd met hands... it summons a lot of things. Good things, bad things. Gnawing panic that tries to bubble up — and all he can think is you can't be here. The walls he'd built, created this past year to ensure some kind of survival for himself, they're teetering dangerously now that the memory of her has realized into flesh.
This is bad. This is — bad. For her, for him. He glances up to meet her gaze. Briefly. A flitter of guilt? A passing shadow of worry? Or perhaps it's just Max being Max, so terrible at something as simple as conversing when a gun isn't in his hand. His hand, thinner, with an old scar on it — his fingers, the hole an arrow left on the back of his hand... fully healed. Long since healed. He squeezes her wrist, gently.]
Been a year. Since the War Rig.
[He knows it won't make sense, because he can tell by looking at her — couldn't have been that long for her. It won't make sense. It barely makes sense to him.]
no subject
This is bad. This is — bad. For her, for him. He glances up to meet her gaze. Briefly. A flitter of guilt? A passing shadow of worry? Or perhaps it's just Max being Max, so terrible at something as simple as conversing when a gun isn't in his hand. His hand, thinner, with an old scar on it — his fingers, the hole an arrow left on the back of his hand... fully healed. Long since healed. He squeezes her wrist, gently.]
Been a year. Since the War Rig.
[He knows it won't make sense, because he can tell by looking at her — couldn't have been that long for her. It won't make sense. It barely makes sense to him.]