#barrowbound

it's not the first time that she's said something that's caught mark off-guard, though it's been the first time that's he's actually, genuinely heard it. usually, he catches bits and pieces of nóltalk, something that makes him give her a bewildered smile, soft and humored. now? it feels like something more, yet that smile still stays.

what mark has learned over his time of being acquainted with nól is that when she wants to do something, it's much easier to let her do that than argue with her. however, he does grow uncomfortable when one of those things is to just stare at him. catching her while she gargoyled at his bedside is one thing. he really doesn't want to know how many times she's done that and he didn't know about it. it really is a lot better to just accept things as they are.

nól's hands are cool against his face, getting close enough to be in his clear vision (he was wearing glasses where did she put them he'll ask her later). she said he had looked like an angel in the light but for now, with the way the overheads diffuse behind her in his blurred vision, he thinks she looks like some sort of saint.

her thumb is gentle against the scar on his face, eyes glancing away from hers. it's been there long enough that he's forgotten how it happened (he knows he knows he doesn't want to say), but any touch that makes him remind himself he's a person is both welcome and unwanted. she touches him so intimately it makes his guts twist.

mark wants to tear her apart. it'd be easy— the stitch ripper is located in the other room and if he told nól not to move, just to lay there on his bed like a doll, she would. he wants to carefully undo her, watch as she unravels under his steady touch with that little smile of hers. he wants to drop affection on all of her stuffing, all of the twigs and the fucked up little parts of her that make her nól.

she would let him too. that trust is ... it's a lot for him to deal with.

sleep-tousled curls bounce as mark sits up, a hand pressing against one of his eyes as he attempts to wake up. the digital clock is blurry, red numbers a blob but he doesn't really care about the actual time. he's more curious about nól ... doing whatever she's doing at this current moment. if his brain were more awake, he'd be stricken by how much she looks like the nightmare. if he remembers later, he'll tell her. right now, he's squinting at nól like he's trying to remember how her limbs work.

" absolutely not. "

there are no ifs. there are no ands. there are no buts. the vision of nól in the creek is striking, almost as if she's some sort of ondine sent to torture him (you know, instead of ... well, he assumes homunculus). it's a much nicer idea than the alternative (

especially not to mention that he could imagine nól pulling him under the water with some sadistic curiosity, her eyes staring down as he thrashes, stops, last few gasps popping to the surface. she can come back from this. he can't. mark doesn't want to think about why he's imagining that so vividly

).

don't worry about the ones nól hasn't ticked. those will surely never become problematic or dangerous for anyone!

she's crying over a dead deer, its head arched back, legs tangled, when nól finds her. though alice doesn't know her name yet, nor can even really tell what she is through the tears and the wash of grief, or shame, or whatever it is.

alice has always gone to be alone when she cries. she curls in on herself, being witnessed—arms around her knees. head down, wiping her eyes on her forearm. when she lifts her face again, it's no clearer, but she's obviously trying to pull herself together.