The self-righteousness, the almost playful viciousness that she's used to seeing from Ronan isn't in his glare. She can't exactly place it, what he's thinking, what he wants to say if anything.
For once, Blue wishes a little that she had Calla's ability to touch someone and see what's in their history. Their future. She's grown to not care so much that she can't see the future, the ineffectual black sheep: less in her head, feet more solidly on the ground. But sometimes, interpreting people like Adam and Ronan...
She just doesn't get it right now: Adam's frustrated I hope the sex was good, maybe I'm just defective -- it doesn't map onto Ronan's expression, like this is some cross he has to bear. Ronan's a lieutenant by nature. She can't see him just messing around with Kavinsky because Adam wasn't here.
He's looking away, having surrendered their locked gaze, and tuning the strings back together. She reminds herself that Ronan's not too different from the puzzle box: just takes looking, not overthinking. If it were yours, you'd have found it already, her mother had said about Gansey's journal.
He's scared, she had said to Adam without thinking, without rationalizing too much, and it had seemed right. Maybe being sensible is worth something after all.
When he speaks, her first instinct is anger, and she flares up for a second. "Who do you --" She can feel the worst of her ready to tumble, unfiltered and cruel like it did at Adam in St. Agnes. Who is Ronan that he gets to determine what Adam can still endure? One more dismissal in eighteen years of undermining; a shattered support that doesn't matter because he isn't in the hospital?
But the branch she's managed to rest her fingertips on shudders, like the uncontrollable muscle shake of repressed rage or tears. Leaves interrupt her in a sigh.
She takes a long breath, and sits, leaning back so the roots of the tree are on either side of her. "Yeah? What about you?"
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Date: 2015-12-09 06:55 pm (UTC)For once, Blue wishes a little that she had Calla's ability to touch someone and see what's in their history. Their future. She's grown to not care so much that she can't see the future, the ineffectual black sheep: less in her head, feet more solidly on the ground. But sometimes, interpreting people like Adam and Ronan...
She just doesn't get it right now: Adam's frustrated I hope the sex was good, maybe I'm just defective -- it doesn't map onto Ronan's expression, like this is some cross he has to bear. Ronan's a lieutenant by nature. She can't see him just messing around with Kavinsky because Adam wasn't here.
He's looking away, having surrendered their locked gaze, and tuning the strings back together.
She reminds herself that Ronan's not too different from the puzzle box: just takes looking, not overthinking. If it were yours, you'd have found it already, her mother had said about Gansey's journal.
He's scared, she had said to Adam without thinking, without rationalizing too much, and it had seemed right. Maybe being sensible is worth something after all.
When he speaks, her first instinct is anger, and she flares up for a second. "Who do you --" She can feel the worst of her ready to tumble, unfiltered and cruel like it did at Adam in St. Agnes. Who is Ronan that he gets to determine what Adam can still endure? One more dismissal in eighteen years of undermining; a shattered support that doesn't matter because he isn't in the hospital?
But the branch she's managed to rest her fingertips on shudders, like the uncontrollable muscle shake of repressed rage or tears. Leaves interrupt her in a sigh.
She takes a long breath, and sits, leaning back so the roots of the tree are on either side of her. "Yeah? What about you?"