#echo galaeus

@galaeus​ said: 

PAST THE POINT OF NO RETURN and even further from there, she finds herself in the silence of their chosen aftermath. They want her to betray him -- soon, eventually, somehow, but she’s given her word: no harm will come to him if she has anything to say about it. Choosing him means she gives up the Continental, the safety of protection from the few that had her back, and all of the resources that came with the seal. Would it be worth it, at the end of the day, if this means they’ll only see to live another week? Another month?

Echo doesn’t have an answer, and she doesn’t have any words to say when his gaze seems to fall to her collarbone; jagged, fresher than the other lines littering her body and gnarled from something sharp. “It’ll heal,” she reassures softly, voice still gruff from the shouting from the chaos days prior.

What she doesn’t expect is the rough fingers to trace the line as if committing it to memory --- or apologizing for it, she can’t be sure. Her breath sucks in sharp, body awakened by something so soft after enduring such hardship and alienation for years. It’s such sensory overload for something so small that she shivers, looks away to conceal the expression of relief that she can’t conquer on her own. Yet she doesn’t stop him; doesn’t want to. “This is nothing compared to what you went through for me,” she attempts to argue with a waver in her tone. Finally looking back to musters the strength it takes to touch her hand to his, she presses his palm to her collarbone to conceal the scar from view. “It’ll heal, Duncan.”

==================

Everything burns, aches. Death by a thousand cuts was certainly not the end the Black Keizer had envisaged for himself and while he remains breathing and many of his wounds are now clean and have clotted, Duncan still feels weak and raw. His body has been left to bear the marks of their abuse; fresh scars that now sit alongside others carved far more deeply; the ones that permanently etch his skin and have done so for years. Eventually these disfigurements will come to be just another part of him, much like the others did, but for now, they simply feel like a violation; a violation that can only be remedied, it seems, by drinking as much whiskey as Vizla can get his hands on.

With the bottle hanging limply from his wrist, he stands in the corner their safehouse, in stolen clothes he has yet to replace and silently watches Echo, wondering what thoughts are going through her mind as she studies herself in the mirror. Does she regret her decision, he wonders; does she wish she had never stumbled upon him in that warehouse, or had arrived too late perhaps, so as to find herself unburdened by the knowledge that she was the one responsible for his demise? Can he truly trust her not to eventually change her mind and choose his death as the simpler option?

Approaching her, a noticeable sway in his step, Duncan’s glazed gaze drifts down to the obvious injury adorning her collarbone. Reaching, he allows his calloused fingertips to gently trace its curvature, quietly appreciating the delineation between her smooth skin and its rough edge. Glancing down at her, only to watch her turn away, he can’t help but find the motion uncharacteristically and adorably demure, as if she is embarrassed by his impromptu appraisal. In truth, he has never looked at her like this, or perhaps, more accurately, has never allowed himself to. Undeniably Echo is beautiful, he has always thought so, but it has never really mattered, not to Duncan, because neither he nor Galaeus were ever meant to be beautiful things, no; they are merely well-wielded weapons, things meant to kill.

Feeling her hand press on top of his own, he notices the slight tremble in her voice and finds himself intrigued by its origin. Is she unnerved by him? Surely not; he has never seen anything unnerve Echo Galaeus; who remains the bravest and boldest operative he has ever encountered, who earned his fealty without ever asking for it. She has never touched him this tenderly and it is hardly surprising; he is brutal, bulky and while he kills with enviable finesse, nothing about him seems graceful or delicate.

“Don’t worry, I’ll live.” He replies softly, voice rough and hoarse from too much whiskey chased with cigarettes.