Allison doesn't usually throw so much at once in the Mental Network messages, generally tries to keep it to the easiest things that can still count as something akin to conversation, so when a sudden giant wall of words starts in a slow scroll in his vision, he blinks a few more times than usually necessary to focus.
He frowns carefully, and as he keeps reading his features twist into something soft and hurt and upset. "That's not fair." the words he refused to say only a moment ago bubble up without a third of the force he'd have thrown them the first time they crossed his mind, head shaking slightly. "Just because I'm not a Dad doesn't mean that what I feel is any less important."
And just as quickly as he'd been hurt, he's angry, getting to his feet, crossing the space she'd put between them to stop just in front of her, lean close and murmur, "Take your fucking high horse, holier-than-thou attitude and stay away from me for the next few days." He doesn't wait to let her respond before brushing the rest of the way past her, stomping quietly back up to his room; she could send whatever piece she might still want to say to him even if he wasn't in the room anyway.
It isn't that he thinks what she feels isn't its own yawning chasm of agony, but the way she wants to parade around and act like she's the only one hurting by being here is what gets under his skin. She's not the only one stuck in a waterfall of grief and guilt and pain for someone in the world they've been ripped away from, and he'll be damned if he lets her try to pretend his pain doesn't matter because hers is somehow bigger, deeper, means more, matters more than his own.
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He frowns carefully, and as he keeps reading his features twist into something soft and hurt and upset. "That's not fair." the words he refused to say only a moment ago bubble up without a third of the force he'd have thrown them the first time they crossed his mind, head shaking slightly. "Just because I'm not a Dad doesn't mean that what I feel is any less important."
And just as quickly as he'd been hurt, he's angry, getting to his feet, crossing the space she'd put between them to stop just in front of her, lean close and murmur, "Take your fucking high horse, holier-than-thou attitude and stay away from me for the next few days." He doesn't wait to let her respond before brushing the rest of the way past her, stomping quietly back up to his room; she could send whatever piece she might still want to say to him even if he wasn't in the room anyway.
It isn't that he thinks what she feels isn't its own yawning chasm of agony, but the way she wants to parade around and act like she's the only one hurting by being here is what gets under his skin. She's not the only one stuck in a waterfall of grief and guilt and pain for someone in the world they've been ripped away from, and he'll be damned if he lets her try to pretend his pain doesn't matter because hers is somehow bigger, deeper, means more, matters more than his own.