You haven't had to. No, that's true. [ Her hands settle back on the bowling ball, shifting the weight of it so it doesn't bear so much on her lap. ] But... you've always wanted to. I can tell. Even when it's not, um.
[ Even when it's not wise. Even when it's not the right choice. When it's not the right thing to do. It was like that when he came against her double, a corrupted and dangerous fracture that had hurt people, that could have killed them — but that wasn't what Jaime prioritized. It was like that years ago, the first time they met, imprisoned; she'd introduced herself as an unrepentant murderer, and all he'd wanted to do was sway her from that conclusion, bring her comfort and a different path. And just last month, with her flippant declarations of being kidnapped, what had he done? Rushed right in to the same mess. They never found one another, but that didn't matter — not when it wasn't by choice, not when he'd wanted to find her.
And it was like that, too, a year ago, on that beach... even before they became friends, or anything close to what they are now. When everything started going to hell, the first thing he'd wanted to do was get her to safety. He'd offered, in his own way. And maybe he wouldn't have been able to follow through, if she'd asked for it then; maybe he would have turned and done the right thing on his own, even if she hadn't made the decision for him. Maybe he would have thought twice, remembered himself, remembered her worth, and chosen for himself to go.
That's not what happened. But it could have, then, and it could still, in the future: he may want to do what he can for her, and weigh his options, and realize—rightly—that whatever's on the other end of that balancing scale is more important. He may never choose to protect her. He may never be in a position to. It doesn't matter. He wants to; that's enough. It's more than enough. It's more than she deserves.
She exhales; her tack-on is quiet, and she doesn't look up. ]
no subject
[ Even when it's not wise. Even when it's not the right choice. When it's not the right thing to do. It was like that when he came against her double, a corrupted and dangerous fracture that had hurt people, that could have killed them — but that wasn't what Jaime prioritized. It was like that years ago, the first time they met, imprisoned; she'd introduced herself as an unrepentant murderer, and all he'd wanted to do was sway her from that conclusion, bring her comfort and a different path. And just last month, with her flippant declarations of being kidnapped, what had he done? Rushed right in to the same mess. They never found one another, but that didn't matter — not when it wasn't by choice, not when he'd wanted to find her.
And it was like that, too, a year ago, on that beach... even before they became friends, or anything close to what they are now. When everything started going to hell, the first thing he'd wanted to do was get her to safety. He'd offered, in his own way. And maybe he wouldn't have been able to follow through, if she'd asked for it then; maybe he would have turned and done the right thing on his own, even if she hadn't made the decision for him. Maybe he would have thought twice, remembered himself, remembered her worth, and chosen for himself to go.
That's not what happened. But it could have, then, and it could still, in the future: he may want to do what he can for her, and weigh his options, and realize—rightly—that whatever's on the other end of that balancing scale is more important. He may never choose to protect her. He may never be in a position to. It doesn't matter. He wants to; that's enough. It's more than enough. It's more than she deserves.
She exhales; her tack-on is quiet, and she doesn't look up. ]
Um, even when it's not. Always feasible, I guess.