[Carlisle waits politely, listening to the sounds beyond the door floating through the broken window and trying to not let his suspicions get too far ahead of him. He hasn't missed the clues that something is off, but in all fairness, Kate's solution for nearly every problem is one with which he, as a recovering alcoholic, is intimately familiar.
He pushes the door open slowly, trying to make as little a disturbance as possible. Given his renewed appearance, he's aware some commentary is normally in order.]
Really.( The sarcasm drips off her tongue before she can stop it, and it isn't just the window that's obviously seeing the effects of... something. Some flare of anger which, despite everything, isn't typical of Kate. There's the mark of a fist in the wall, and shards of ceramic littering the floor, surrounded by drops of blood.
Kate finally stops rinsing her hand, wrapping kitchen towel around it as she turns and—
The sight of Carlisle is enough to wipe any other thoughts from her mind, her mouth opening and closing. Sure, Glacius had told her he was better, but hearing that and seeing that are two different things.
It's... something that doesn't entirely suck in this city at this time, a balm against the ache in her chest. )
[He opens his mouth to offer thanks, or a proper greeting, or something to the tune of I wish I could say the same for you,, but all seem like inappropriate choices, given the signs of distress around her house. As for the cause of it, he assumes it's one of the usual guesses: something has gone wrong, the gods have wronged her, or someone she cares for has disappeared. Perhaps it's something as benign as having a bad day, but he expects even Kate to have more control over her vices in that case.
Worse, then. It always is. His glowing eyes flick to the drops of blood and shards of broken ceramic, then to her hand and the towel around it. He holds his out to her, his familiar gloves and ink-stained bandage present despite his renewed condition.]
( If it was a bad day, she'd simply go to the Speakeasy. Tequila — or whatever it is that tastes enough like tequila here — tends to solve that problem.
She frowns, then moves her hand forward, unwrapping the towel from her hand as she does so. )
[Usually, Kate's brevity vexes Carlisle; however, that indeed does explain just about all of it.]
Ah.
[That's not all he can say about that, obviously. He has a myriad of words, most of which are related to how glad he is it wasn't him going through such circumstances, how one day it will be him, as all things -- especially good things -- must end for the twice-cursed, who never deserved them at all. It's hardly an appropriate thought, and the shame and guilt he feels over it crosses his face almost immediately, etching themselves into the creases of his face as he takes her hand.
The energy he channels into it comes in a quick burst, just enough to mend her injury. There is nothing he can do for her other, more grievous wounds.]
I, um.
[Nope, not that time either. For a moment, he's unable to figure out just where the line of what he should and shouldn't say is. Did she ever express herself to him, Carlisle wonders? Or was she as pointedly distant with Ignis as she is with many others, closed off to the point of infuriation, and now must suffer the regret of all that went unsaid? He instead falls back into the familiar line of questioning taught by his order.]
( He'd be surprised if he saw their interactions, how easily Ignis could coax her into being more expressive, how much happier she was. Dark brown eyes, dulled to a near-black, follow Carlisle's work, the shift in his expression, and she murmurs a thanks without thinking about it as her hand repairs itself. )
... What d'you think? ( She snorts and gestures to the mess around her, eyes casting over all of it. The worst of that anger is gone, replaced by a dull, aching numbness, the logical awareness that she has to clean this shit up now. )
Not sure why I thought it'd be different.
( Losing him was guaranteed, at one point or another, and she was fortunate to have much longer with him than she did with Sam, but still—
Why was she stupid enough to fall into that blissful feeling again? That one where the dark cloud of inevitable separation was ignored, where she kept wearing summer clothes despite the building signs of a storm, rejected umbrellas and shelter.
Who else can she blame for the hurt of losing him but herself? She was dumb enough to act like they were just two people and this world was theirs, when it's merely one they're borrowing.
[He might be surprised, but he might not be, as Carlisle has seen how she interacts with Glacius from time to time, and is well aware of their closeness and how she opens up for his partner in a way she never has for him. She can do it, but does she choose not to? Or is there something about him that makes it so difficult?
Carlisle doesn't know the answer to that, but he cannot help the bitter jealousy that stirs in his chest at the mere thought as she retorts sarcastically rather than giving him a straightforward answer for his honest question. Why did he believe she would do any different? Why did she believe things would be different regarding Ignis? Why did any of them hold onto such vain hope of change?
He releases her hand, bringing his own back so that he may pick at the stained bandage on his arm.]
( The commentary on their relationship versus those they have with others could fill a small book, but right now those problems are secondary to the fact that Carlisle is here and she trusts him in a way she so rarely communicates.
It's easier to open up to him than he might realise, easier to let the vulnerability cross her expression as she speaks, focusing on the shattered pieces of kitchenware littering the floor. The sarcastic comment comes out too easily, a dry dig at herself more than anything.
What a fucking weakness to have. And what a way to make it all too obvious to anyone who walks by. )
... ( Regrets? Hurt wants to say that putting herself through this is her regret. Letting herself care about anyone so much that she feels this emptiness, as though all the rivers have been drained, just like losing each member of her family.
But she doesn't. She doesn't because she can't, because despite all the anger at how unfair this is, when she thinks of what they had?
Well. She can't regret that. It's not like last time. There's nothing she wishes she had, except for more time. Ever so selfishly. Just... more time. )
...No.
( Her back hits the cabinet behind her and Kate sinks down onto the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He pushes the door open slowly, trying to make as little a disturbance as possible. Given his renewed appearance, he's aware some commentary is normally in order.]
Your windows are broken.
no subject
Kate finally stops rinsing her hand, wrapping kitchen towel around it as she turns and—
The sight of Carlisle is enough to wipe any other thoughts from her mind, her mouth opening and closing. Sure, Glacius had told her he was better, but hearing that and seeing that are two different things.
It's... something that doesn't entirely suck in this city at this time, a balm against the ache in her chest. )
... Y'look good.
no subject
Worse, then. It always is. His glowing eyes flick to the drops of blood and shards of broken ceramic, then to her hand and the towel around it. He holds his out to her, his familiar gloves and ink-stained bandage present despite his renewed condition.]
Here. Allow me, if you would.
no subject
She frowns, then moves her hand forward, unwrapping the towel from her hand as she does so. )
... Ignis is gone.
( As though that explains all of... this.
Because it does. )
no subject
Ah.
[That's not all he can say about that, obviously. He has a myriad of words, most of which are related to how glad he is it wasn't him going through such circumstances, how one day it will be him, as all things -- especially good things -- must end for the twice-cursed, who never deserved them at all. It's hardly an appropriate thought, and the shame and guilt he feels over it crosses his face almost immediately, etching themselves into the creases of his face as he takes her hand.
The energy he channels into it comes in a quick burst, just enough to mend her injury. There is nothing he can do for her other, more grievous wounds.]
I, um.
[Nope, not that time either. For a moment, he's unable to figure out just where the line of what he should and shouldn't say is. Did she ever express herself to him, Carlisle wonders? Or was she as pointedly distant with Ignis as she is with many others, closed off to the point of infuriation, and now must suffer the regret of all that went unsaid? He instead falls back into the familiar line of questioning taught by his order.]
What feel you in all this?
no subject
... What d'you think? ( She snorts and gestures to the mess around her, eyes casting over all of it. The worst of that anger is gone, replaced by a dull, aching numbness, the logical awareness that she has to clean this shit up now. )
Not sure why I thought it'd be different.
( Losing him was guaranteed, at one point or another, and she was fortunate to have much longer with him than she did with Sam, but still—
Why was she stupid enough to fall into that blissful feeling again? That one where the dark cloud of inevitable separation was ignored, where she kept wearing summer clothes despite the building signs of a storm, rejected umbrellas and shelter.
Who else can she blame for the hurt of losing him but herself? She was dumb enough to act like they were just two people and this world was theirs, when it's merely one they're borrowing.
Or one which borrowed them. )
no subject
Carlisle doesn't know the answer to that, but he cannot help the bitter jealousy that stirs in his chest at the mere thought as she retorts sarcastically rather than giving him a straightforward answer for his honest question. Why did he believe she would do any different? Why did she believe things would be different regarding Ignis? Why did any of them hold onto such vain hope of change?
He releases her hand, bringing his own back so that he may pick at the stained bandage on his arm.]
Have you any regrets?
no subject
It's easier to open up to him than he might realise, easier to let the vulnerability cross her expression as she speaks, focusing on the shattered pieces of kitchenware littering the floor. The sarcastic comment comes out too easily, a dry dig at herself more than anything.
What a fucking weakness to have. And what a way to make it all too obvious to anyone who walks by. )
... ( Regrets? Hurt wants to say that putting herself through this is her regret. Letting herself care about anyone so much that she feels this emptiness, as though all the rivers have been drained, just like losing each member of her family.
But she doesn't. She doesn't because she can't, because despite all the anger at how unfair this is, when she thinks of what they had?
Well. She can't regret that. It's not like last time. There's nothing she wishes she had, except for more time. Ever so selfishly. Just... more time. )
...No.
( Her back hits the cabinet behind her and Kate sinks down onto the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. )
Just— I didn't want him to go.