[There's nothing in his chest anymore. His eyes flick between Jiaoqiu's, wide at first. Then dimming, hounddog low, shame and sorrow swinging his focus to someplace easier to look. His own knees, perhaps.]
Because this is. Deadly so, if you can forgive the turn of phrase. Voices come to him quick when he runs out of things to say. When he runs out of courage, when he can't step up to the plate and do it right. Bill was the writer. Even the stutter didn't stop his words from holding their weight in gold.]
It's not like you ran me through it. [Don't apologize.] ...I'm sorry too. That it was what happened to you. Not just some...fucked up physical hallucination.
...Was it blow by blow the same? Did he rip into you like he did me?
[He mostly turns his head to look this time, best not piss off the healer or upset the wrappings. Richie considers the damage. Still there, a week later, when most everyone else has shucked their wrappings. He has.
It doesn't feel right. Sitting in this moment, getting bandaged up for stolen valor. Stolen death, stolen pain. Walk a mile in someone else's shoes, huh? How about slot yourself into their skin and take their blows on your muscle and bone? Then sit dead in front of them with hounddog eyes and a sob story and make them tell you it's gonna be okay?
He flinches, bringing his hand to his nose. His eyes, beneath his glasses.]
What a rotten...My god, JQ, Jesus Christ Almighty.
What? I can't eke out a wedge of sympathy for a good guy who got a fate worse than death?
[Even if it was quite literally death. He just has a particular hang up about the method. Eaten alive.
Too close to home. Much too close.]
To be fair, it didn't feel like an afternoon. About a hundred years and a month more like, though the century whizzed by like it was nothing much at all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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and then, a sigh. ]
Yes, of course it is. That's how I died. What's curious is why you experienced it.
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[There's nothing in his chest anymore. His eyes flick between Jiaoqiu's, wide at first. Then dimming, hounddog low, shame and sorrow swinging his focus to someplace easier to look. His own knees, perhaps.]
...Gee bawsse, shure wish I knew.
[An ineffectual mob goon for you.]
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This is not the time for silly voices.
[ but he's not really all that annoyed, he's just a fuss. ]
... Then, let me reiterate my apologies. I'm sorry you experienced that.
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[Sorry he can be serious.
Because this is. Deadly so, if you can forgive the turn of phrase. Voices come to him quick when he runs out of things to say. When he runs out of courage, when he can't step up to the plate and do it right. Bill was the writer. Even the stutter didn't stop his words from holding their weight in gold.]
It's not like you ran me through it. [Don't apologize.] ...I'm sorry too. That it was what happened to you. Not just some...fucked up physical hallucination.
...Was it blow by blow the same? Did he rip into you like he did me?
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He did. Borisin partake of flesh and blood before battles. It drives their strength to levels they could not accomplish without it.
[ he taps his chest, where there are still bandages. ]
These are the remains.
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It doesn't feel right. Sitting in this moment, getting bandaged up for stolen valor. Stolen death, stolen pain. Walk a mile in someone else's shoes, huh? How about slot yourself into their skin and take their blows on your muscle and bone? Then sit dead in front of them with hounddog eyes and a sob story and make them tell you it's gonna be okay?
He flinches, bringing his hand to his nose. His eyes, beneath his glasses.]
What a rotten...My god, JQ, Jesus Christ Almighty.
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[ ear flick. he's serene, as usual - or maybe numb. there's a lot of numbness, that comes with war. ]
I'm more worried for the group of you. My life is a lot to experience in what is essentially one afternoon.
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[Even if it was quite literally death. He just has a particular hang up about the method. Eaten alive.
Too close to home. Much too close.]
To be fair, it didn't feel like an afternoon. About a hundred years and a month more like, though the century whizzed by like it was nothing much at all.