#spitfire interactions

      SPITFIRE— “We had a very good time.”

“Even if it heals quickly, sometimes its good to just. Pause for a bit and take the time to take care of yourself properly, even if you think it isn’t supposed to be worth it.” He knows well the feeling of wanting to ignore ones body’s pleas to stop or take pause, even though he doesn’t know that is not why she didn’t want him to bind it, so he can’t help but make her adhere to this idea to make sure she doesn’t follow the path he does. 

              SPITFIRE— “Oh, don’t mind me. Just enjoying the view.”

             SPITFIRE— WHEN TROY OPENED THE door to him, he could not help but feel a trace of relief at the sight of their face and expression. He had already been preparing to depart again solely because he thought the other was surely long asleep and in no mood to accept him as a house guest when it is a vivid and clear call for comfort, even when he vaguely pretended it wasn’t.             He was unbothered by the lingering smell of cigarettes, spending most of his time around stinking planes, and probably smelling like it himself too after work (although he showered now so it might have mostly been fixed). Eyes did meet up with Troy’s when he touched his cheeks, clearly taken off-guard when it happened, looking slightly surprised as he places a hand on their wrist as he slightly leans into the touch, letting the plastic carrier bag shift to his elbow in the process. Eyes sink down to the ground for a moment as he swallows through tightening throat. Releasing them when they went in for the hug, he leans his head quietly on their shoulder as he stays close to them for a while.                Only when Troy pulled away again did he lift his head, looking at the other with a smile, allowing Troy to take the beer he wanted (that’s why he brought them, after all). “Thanks.” He mutters as he slowly follows Troy inside, depositing the items on the nearest available surface, eyes lowered to the ground. He was not going to tell that his work was the cause of it, or what had happened. It was information Troy was unlikely to want or be pleased with knowing. Sometimes it was better to just let it be. He sinks down on it heavily, staring off slightly into the distance, not really aware that he was doing so. 

                SPITFIRE—  “Hey, how about you give me back my wallet?” He spoke calmly and coldly. A smile that had previously shown unadulterated friendliness, now twisted into that of someone who had seen things that most people never dreamed of. 

                SPITFIRE— “THIS WON’T CHANGE ANYTHING!” He yelled at her-- Again, he had to add, to his own dismay. This was not the first time, nor the last. Fingers gripping tightly at his own pale blond strands strain obviously visible with the tightening skin around his knuckles.  He was this close to trying to pull on it. He could not help it, he could feel the distress cause his heart to seem to skip beats, his throat clenching as he was trying his hardest not to breathe rapidly. Honestly, this kind of attack was relatively rare. Usually, he was very much in control of himself. Always keeping himself in line-- Always keeping a straight face. Never letting show the mess that was his mind to peers or superiors. He could not lose his job after all. His pride would never allow that to happen. Ever. Even if he had to self-destruct in the process of keeping his claws dug tightly into the occupation.            After a moment, the tension in his hands released slowly-- like the unwinding of springs, slowly and carefully, a light tremble running through the scarred fingers. He swallowed heavily, tongue drawing out to moisten dry and cracked lips as he pressed oddly colored eyes closed slightly as they were aimed down at his own hands as he rested them slowly in his lap. “I’m sorry, miss Cacilia,”  he still called her this, mostly out of politeness and respect for her and her occupation during their sessions, not wanting to give off a disrespectful impression like a lot of people did in current times, “I-- I didn’t mean for such an outburst..” he whispered softly, his voice hoarse from the yelling he had done at her.               Slowly,  he sucked in a breath as he slowly straightened himself up and looked at her with a regretful expression-- eyebrows knitted together slightly. “I just-- I feel like I’ve just not been improving... I keep.. I keep waking up with these-- these nightmares.” For a while now, he did not care if he looked frail, or weak. For just the time he spends here, he did not mind showing the weakness he refused to show in daily life. Show how much he struggled with the new world that was emerging around him and which gave the impression of marching ahead without pausing to wait for him. “---And Mercy keeps yelling at me.. Telling me that I should not be such a weakling or that I am a bother for lingering around at home, or that I am no fun anymore...” He brought his fingers to his neck, slowly drawing over the purple-red mark that peeked out from under the collar of his shirt before drawing his palm over his nape for a moment. 

A groan of annoyance leaving his lips, he slowly put the gun in his hands down on the ground, before shifting onto his knees and lifting his hands in the air above his head. He could almost hear the sneer on their faces even when they did not speak and cuffed him to one of the support posts to uphold the structure, having blindfolded him before he got a chance to see their faces—Although they very much let him hear the panicked shrieks of the crew as they were removed from the bridge and were instead brought to a less vital room of the ship, or even taken off ship. He was not quite sure what they were doing at all, their voices nothing more but murmurs.

            SPITFIRE—  “Do you mind if I sit down here?” Tilting his head, he looked down at the other. This was literally the only spot left in the café, thus causing him to as this.