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May. 26th, 2006 05:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eldorne_girlThink I care, Dell?
Somehow, she had left the Bar without losing all her composure. She was crying, oh yes she was crying, but it was a silent, pretty thing with tears sliding down her pale cheeks and eyes not really seeing anything.
I'm not him.
This couldn't last, and it didn't once she had made a few meters away from the back door. It wasn't cold, just a crisp spring-nearly-summer night and her dress was a real one; soft, yes, but the fabric was heavy and she had petticoats. No reason, then, for her to be shaking and feeling cold.
I think you would have done if I hadn't said anything.
A choked sob and the delicate girl stumbled, throwing out her hand out against a sycamore so she didn't fall. Sycamore...
I don't know why we do this.
Do what, Thom?
Why? Why do you talk to me?
A sycamore where Indy had taught her to shoot, where they had kissed and made love, hands never stopping and they didn't say 'I love you'. That was later, after she...after he...Well. Doesn't matter. She had fucked that one up and he'd burnt the roses and it's only poetic justice that her knees landed the roses had been, isn't it?
Love, then? For people who hurt you and don't really need you.
Oh, that had hurt. She couldn't think, couldn't think of Josie and Alex, couldn't think of Val (but, she didn't love him. Liked him well enough, but wouldn't let herself love him), just...She thought of Gary and Raoul and the boys at court to whom she'd flirted and teased and been oh so cruel to. She thought of Roger, and that helpless addiction. She thought of Indy. A good man, safe and smart and she did love him, she did. Once. Then she'd panicked and threw the keys and he'd burt the roses so that bridge was gone and
your idea of love's very strange
she thought of Thom. Hadn't meant to mean it. Just something to say, to throw in his face to see what he would do, like she said. But then, then she said it and she did mean it and the words had choked her to say them again. She hadn't. But. Love. For someone who hurt her, who didn't need her, who kept on talking back to her but that was just using, wasn't it?
He didn't need her, he had Alanna.
So Delia just curled up underneath the sycamore, and cried where no one could see.
Mithros bless, stupid girl.
Somehow, she had left the Bar without losing all her composure. She was crying, oh yes she was crying, but it was a silent, pretty thing with tears sliding down her pale cheeks and eyes not really seeing anything.
I'm not him.
This couldn't last, and it didn't once she had made a few meters away from the back door. It wasn't cold, just a crisp spring-nearly-summer night and her dress was a real one; soft, yes, but the fabric was heavy and she had petticoats. No reason, then, for her to be shaking and feeling cold.
I think you would have done if I hadn't said anything.
A choked sob and the delicate girl stumbled, throwing out her hand out against a sycamore so she didn't fall. Sycamore...
I don't know why we do this.
Do what, Thom?
Why? Why do you talk to me?
A sycamore where Indy had taught her to shoot, where they had kissed and made love, hands never stopping and they didn't say 'I love you'. That was later, after she...after he...Well. Doesn't matter. She had fucked that one up and he'd burnt the roses and it's only poetic justice that her knees landed the roses had been, isn't it?
Love, then? For people who hurt you and don't really need you.
Oh, that had hurt. She couldn't think, couldn't think of Josie and Alex, couldn't think of Val (but, she didn't love him. Liked him well enough, but wouldn't let herself love him), just...She thought of Gary and Raoul and the boys at court to whom she'd flirted and teased and been oh so cruel to. She thought of Roger, and that helpless addiction. She thought of Indy. A good man, safe and smart and she did love him, she did. Once. Then she'd panicked and threw the keys and he'd burt the roses so that bridge was gone and
your idea of love's very strange
she thought of Thom. Hadn't meant to mean it. Just something to say, to throw in his face to see what he would do, like she said. But then, then she said it and she did mean it and the words had choked her to say them again. She hadn't. But. Love. For someone who hurt her, who didn't need her, who kept on talking back to her but that was just using, wasn't it?
He didn't need her, he had Alanna.
So Delia just curled up underneath the sycamore, and cried where no one could see.
Mithros bless, stupid girl.
