— & from the 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒, you 𝑹𝑰𝑺𝑬.

          It’s not purely discombobulation that the extemporaneous gesture begets. When masculine arms precipitately encircle her, she’s not merely flummoxed. Accompanied by a consolidated cognizance of the sentimental pain that she’s been lugging around, there’s now an unmistakable tightness afflicting her throat. Trepidation is woken by the thought that the beguiling illusion of ataraxy that she’s crafted to delude others - to SHIELD herself - may disintegrate if she reciprocates. It’s why limber arms tentatively move to LOOSELY enfold him. Whilst tenderly enveloped like she is now, it’s terribly difficult for her to persist in veiling wounds imperceptible to the naked eye - to persist in concealing scars that mar not flesh but the heart.  

          Nevertheless, inherently obstinate, she TRIES by focusing on the concerning possibility that his own anguish has motivated him to seek out solace. It’s simply a possibility. For though she can certainly presume and conjecture, she ultimately knows not what’s compelled him to initiate this spontaneous moment of intimacy. Solicitously, she enquires about his reasoning. ❝ Not that I’m against this, but are you…ALRIGHT? Is there something you want to talk about? ❞  

    ❝  This is real. 𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑶𝑭 𝑰𝑻, ❞    so very real. It’s as real as the foliage fringing their current dwelling, as real as the noticeable - and subsequently perpetual - mitigating to an expression once so worn with the burden of all forces, now at a gradual ascent towards betterment. And it’s only at her reciprocation that he utters a careful breath, its delivery bearing a certain shakiness to it, at risk to be misconstrued ( her penchant for observation does not fall on deaf ears, and it’s most certainly a facet of her he holds in complete and utter reverence ). But he disregards the likelihood, the thought at a speedy decline as he moves to pull away - not enough to divest either of the two apart but, rather, a lighter, less profound grasp.

     𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹.   But he’s curbing his tongue from voicing his assent, reluctance manifesting that belief through a furrowing brow and steady frown - unavoidable. And unavoidable it is, indeed; for how long it’s been, he wonders between a careful back and forth of the empty glass at his fingers to Daniel’s generally reticent expression, since the one seated before him last came face to face with any semblance of peace, any satisfaction at aspects in his life?    ❝ No. We won’t, ❞    𝑰𝑻'𝑺 𝑨𝑳𝑴𝑶𝑺𝑻 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑩𝑬𝑹, how it leaves the quiet knelling of a buzzed haze.    ❝  — But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. ❞

     ❝ Don’t, ❞    he says through a sigh, low-pitched, mild in force. Weariness is pinching at the skin of his nose. The persistence of a particularly unshakable headache remains steadfast in spite of her coming to; where relief should be, to take solace in her speedy recovery, there’s nothing but frustration, more and more frustration - that, and a certain breed of bewilderment that boils his blood even more so. He’s always known the  𝑳𝑬 𝑫𝑶𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑬𝑺  weren’t exactly the most archetypal family, their dynasty fortuitous with a past of riches and fortune and indecipherable mysteries, but never did he quite anticipate the sheer lunacy that would ensue mere hours after his leaving. An estate set aflame, engulfing architecture, stifling greenery until it inevitably breathes in its unalterable demise.