He smiles at her little joke—it doesn't feel pleasant, likely doesn't look it. His eyes hard. He nudges the shot glass away, considering. He's known plenty of people like her, who couldn't feel like they were anything without reducing someone else to nothing. He'd known how many drinks it took before Logan's smile widened and got mean, and William—with his hangups, his desperation to please—became fodder.
He'd come out of that first breach loving her, for whatever the fuck it was worth—her idealism as the world died around her, the way she'd flung herself bodily into her lost cause. And the way she'd been with him, the way they'd held each other together.
He doesn't know if it's a choice, one or the other, or what he'd choose.
“Who else have you done it to here?” He catches himself. “No. Who else.” A glance—borderline frantic, like a moth trapped in a jar—around the confines of the room, a sorry gesture toward that half-theoretical place, the world beyond the Barge.
no subject
He'd come out of that first breach loving her, for whatever the fuck it was worth—her idealism as the world died around her, the way she'd flung herself bodily into her lost cause. And the way she'd been with him, the way they'd held each other together.
He doesn't know if it's a choice, one or the other, or what he'd choose.
“Who else have you done it to here?” He catches himself. “No. Who else.” A glance—borderline frantic, like a moth trapped in a jar—around the confines of the room, a sorry gesture toward that half-theoretical place, the world beyond the Barge.