#killjoysnoise

what if what if what if, it doesn't matter

"Oh yes. I understand, cher."

Alastor hadn't yet looked up at the girl, his gaze however was on an old dusty tome in his hands, flickering through the old leather back with his index finger, his shifting gaze reading something unseen as he did. She had been staying here in his cabin now for the last few days. Maybe more. He hadn't the foggiest recollection. This had been the only place he could think of. His safe haven that would be safe enough till the hounds searching for her would travel passed and continue on to the next city.

Being the gentlemen he was, whom had found her covered in blood that darkened night. It was only right to look after her here in his humble abode. He had even picked up a skull or two. Dusted off the place. Made it presentable for the living and not just the dead. He lingered in silence, humming a soft tune to himself as he sunk deeper into the old red couch he had by the fire, reading through the last new tome that had come to interest him. Two sets of teacups sat between them, it's gentle mist rising slowly in a curl through the air.

The girl stayed a present wonder on his mind, but not to the point he had found need for idle chatter. He would save such uses for the masses. For her? He would let girl speak first, to find her voice during these first steps out of the bloodlust. He knew most of all what it felt like. When the feral cravings stepped away and the clarity returned from the chaos. He would give her that much. When she did speak, he'd hum, nodding some. Yes. He knew most of all.

"It's addicting isn't it? The warmth on your fingers after the kill? It's inspiring even don' you think? You never truly part with it." Finally, Alastor flickered his eyes towards her, his never ending smile curling faintly. He'd close the book, resting it on his crossed leg as he watched her.

This is why she keeps her distance from him, from all of them. It makes moments like these unbearable in a way nothing else can.

It is hard to hurt her. Physically. You could cut her open, spill her insides across the floor like she is nothing more than a doll split at the seams, stuffing torn free, and she would still return. It is not the supercomputer working its cold, mechanical miracles. No. Unfortunately for her, she has always had a habit of coming back. This body is only something she wears. Something placed inside skin that refuses to loosen its hold.

But there are other ways to break something.

Only the smallest fracture is needed. A hairline crack. Pressure in the right place. After all, she had been given the name Ophelia for a reason; grief that festers, madness born of sorrow, a heart shaped by the hands around her. Lovers were not the only ones capable of undoing her. If certain forces had their way, insanity would be her ending.

And whether the master of this hell understands her fully or not, he is clever enough to eventually figure it out. He does not need to tear her apart. He just needs to use the other pieces on the board. Let her heightened empathy gnaw at her ribs. Lets her nurturing heart burn itself hollow. That is how you exhaust something that cannot die.

She takes a careful step forward, crossing the invisible line she drew for herself. Then another. She moves around him so that when she lowers into a crouch, she is directly in front of him. Her heart aches for the others, but right now it aches for him most of all.

She wants to cradle his face in her hands. To brush her thumbs beneath his eyes, wiping away his tears, and steady him. To reinforce his mind with nothing more than her touch. She could do it... But she does not.

❝I’m not going to hurt you.❞ Her voice is soft. Gentle. Misplaced in a room like this.

AM could try to make her. Could force them into a choice where it is one or the other. She would still choose the slow, painful torture of herself before she ever let harm reach him by her hand.

❝I don’t think you’re stupid,❞ she adds quietly. ❝And I don’t hate you.❞ The calm in her tone is not indifference. It is steadiness. It is something kind offered. ❝I genuinely care about you.❞

She stands slowly and extends her hand to him, palm open. A flicker of affection in a place built to extinguish such things. ❝I’ll get you to the end of this. We just have to go a little farther. I promise I won’t hurt you.❞

If the computer chooses that moment to drive an arrow through her palm, or between her eyes, she will not react. She will not give him the satisfaction. He wants tears? He wants her trembling and desperate, praying to a God she does not belong to? He wants her hopeless?

Then he will have to try harder.