#epsilonalioth

He finds her there, looks upon her with a kindness she's not yet accustomed to, ruffles her hair despite her weak protests and never mentions what he was doing out so late, how he knew where she'd be. She likens him to the father she's certain she no longer has and resists the urge to cling to his sleeve, demand he take her back with him so she never has to see her real family again.

But she doesn't get the chance because before long he's nudging her back the way she came, clutching a map of the city that he pulled out of nowhere, the way home marked in heavy blue ink and another path that she doesn't recognise just yet (but one she will learn to walk soon enough, one whose twists and turns and missteps she will memorise, and he's playing the long game).

(Preying on little girls. Reprehensible.)

She sees nothing of him for years, aside from the odd holographic projection here and there, swept up as she is in the irresistible tide of her father's convoluted plans. She barely has time to breathe as the name Thomas is stripped from her and she becomes IV, the last vestiges of compassion drained away--it's easy to see from the way she delights in crushing her opponents, from the way the jerky movements of her monsters never unnerves her while Chris--V--blanches every time he sees them.

(There is joy in that for her, too--and enough Thomas left to wonder how she could let herself be controlled so completely.)

She fights and she wins and suddenly she is the Asian Duel Champion and--lost, and alone, because the adoring smiles of her fans are never truly for her, because III's murmurs of neesan are strained and V hasn't spoken to either of them in weeks, and she blames Tron until she's blue in the face but deep down she knows it's her, it's her, she's taking this too far.

So she finds that map and runs, follows the guide through winding city streets she's never dared to tread, winds up on his doorstep and he's got the door open and arms spread for her to fall into almost before she arrives and he touches her so gently and--

--she hadn't realised it was the touching she missed, stuck with an unbridgeable rift between her and everyone she knows, but with him they're pressed against each other, sealed into a single entity.

(She feels the tug of strings, revealed as her clothes fall to the floor, but finds herself too caught up in the wonder to notice.)

They meet again the next night, and the night after that, and every night for the next two weeks so she can lose herself and he can pick up the shards that break off her, tucking them into the pocket of his coat for safekeeping, and every time he does she feels the strings pull a little tighter.

She plays with puppets, she should know--she does know, and chooses to ignore it, chooses to believe he only wants the best for her. Tells him so, one night before they begin, and he laughs and whispers in her ear that she might need to reconsider.

She chooses to ignore that, too.

It isn't clear how much she is his until he turns her away one night, shuts the door in her face and leaves her stuck out in the cold and the spots of rain that are just starting to fall from heavy clouds (how fitting), twisting her braid and feeling something eat away at her; he collected shards at first but now she's certain he's stolen her whole heart (and she can't say she minds).

Back home, to an empty house, to a father that won't look at her and brothers that move away when they pass each other in the halls, and she wonders why misguided attachment still makes her call it home when home is the other side of the city, out in the rain, an open door and gloved hands touching every part of her and fullness and belonging.

That night is spent curled up and vacant, anticipating the next, fearing another refusal.

But he welcomes her in again, holds her close and runs his fingers through her hair and tells her that she's his and she nods weakly and whispers yours, yours, yours.