#f1ag

"why'd  you  have  to  go  an'  knock  him  out  like  that?"    she  scolds,  giving  her  companion  a  hearty  shove  to  the  chest  before  glaring  at  him,    “i  started  that  fight  -  i  could’a  finished  it!”    and  as  much  as  the  stubborn  heart  believes  that  truth,  it  doesn’t  change  the  fact  that  her  opponent  could’ve  stomped  her  flat.  she  catches  her  breath,  sitting  in  the  prickly  silence  as  she  begins  to  swallow  her  pride.

as  insistently  as  eliza  reprimands  rick,  her  frustrated,  pinched  brows  soon  begin  to  give  way  to  her  bleeding  empathy  -  care  is  written  across  her  features  as  she  leans  in,  reaching  to  cradle  rick’s  face  in  her  hands,  gentle  to  touch  and  examine  the  areas  where  he  seems  to  have  taken  a  hit  or  two.  when  she  speaks  up  again,  it’s  with  a  kinder  tone,    “...  i  don’t  like  seein’  you  get  hurt.”

daphne stood a few feet away from him, studying him with a gaze that was sharp yet understanding, like she could see right through the man.  the way he carried himself — worn down, haunted by memories —was a story she didn’t need to hear.  she’d seen it in the eyes of others, that same hollow look, that same weight they couldn’t shake off.  it wasn’t about asking the questions, she knew better than that.  instead, she just settled beside him, leaning casually against the bar, letting the quiet company speak volumes.  her fingers traced the edge of her glass, not a word leaving her lips, just an unspoken acknowledgment of the space between them.  it wasn’t the most comforting presence, but it was enough.  enough to show that sometimes people didn’t need to talk to be understood. 

when he finally spoke, she didn’t flinch or rush to offer some sort of trite response.  daphne’s lips curved ever so slightly at the edges, just enough to show that she wasn’t blind to the pain he carried, but she wasn’t there to fix it.  his chuckle wasn’t real, but it was a step, one she appreciated.  she met his gaze, her expression not one of pity, but of quiet recognition.  ❝yeah, you do,❞ she replied with a small, wry smile.  she tipped her glass in his direction, her gaze softening just a touch.  ❝ we all carry shit with us. ❞ she continued, the words more of a shared understanding than advice.  but she didn’t push any further, letting him decide how far he wanted to go — if at all.