( ... what a fine, supportive answer. as always, her brother listens so carefully, intuiting her troubles before she ever has the chance to voice them out loud. given the opportunity to think about it, it's so silly in this outlandish context. so much severity put into something that this place doesn't think all too much about, despite calculating a monetary value to the interaction and weighing its worth in the same careless risk of a real gamble. like everything can be bought for the right price.
how quaint. if nothing is sacred, everything can be shared in harmony. but harmony's calling had come second. sharing everything with her brother had always come first.
she should tell him, share your feelings with me so that she could have that from him too. but no one seems to think of privacy as a sacrosanct thing, either, when there's a knock on the door and not enough rooms on this floor for debauchery, it seems. when sunday pulls his hand away, she's left a little stricken for how cold the room suddenly seems without it. his stance is so solid, with a stranger's polished appearance, and the way she looks at him, really looks at him, turned away from her and distant, makes her wonder how she could have ever thought he was anyone else for even an instant.
she smiles a little at that. )
We're allowed use of these rooms as much as anyone else, sir.
( she says, in that softer, familiar lilt that sunday might remember from some other sun-stroking afternoon. it's a bold thing to do when he's unguarded, when the glove on her hand is still warm from his own finger pressure where she's cradling his jaw, where she's turning his face back to meet her, her thumb skimming the curve of his mouth with deliberate delicacy.
maybe he's standing in his office in his memory when robin first leans in, and he'll remember the last time he'd reached out, fingers held firm between them to intercept her kiss of greeting, voice unwavering as he'd intoned with grave finality, we aren't children anymore. )
cw: incest but it's not just thoughts sorry 1/2
how quaint. if nothing is sacred, everything can be shared in harmony. but harmony's calling had come second. sharing everything with her brother had always come first.
she should tell him, share your feelings with me so that she could have that from him too. but no one seems to think of privacy as a sacrosanct thing, either, when there's a knock on the door and not enough rooms on this floor for debauchery, it seems. when sunday pulls his hand away, she's left a little stricken for how cold the room suddenly seems without it. his stance is so solid, with a stranger's polished appearance, and the way she looks at him, really looks at him, turned away from her and distant, makes her wonder how she could have ever thought he was anyone else for even an instant.
she smiles a little at that. )
We're allowed use of these rooms as much as anyone else, sir.
( she says, in that softer, familiar lilt that sunday might remember from some other sun-stroking afternoon. it's a bold thing to do when he's unguarded, when the glove on her hand is still warm from his own finger pressure where she's cradling his jaw, where she's turning his face back to meet her, her thumb skimming the curve of his mouth with deliberate delicacy.
maybe he's standing in his office in his memory when robin first leans in, and he'll remember the last time he'd reached out, fingers held firm between them to intercept her kiss of greeting, voice unwavering as he'd intoned with grave finality, we aren't children anymore. )