[He feels her fingers curl weakly around the material near his hand, and purses his lips, his body tense. It took that much effort just to hold a bit of fabric, to grasp something so small. She's always doing this to herself, isn't she? Trying too hard, forcing strength when anyone else might cave to their own weakness. It's an admirable and infuriating trait.
She should know better.]
Stop pushing yourself. Just get some rest.
[It's a quiet, chiding tone, more gentle than his previous words; he's still angry, no denying that, but his concern for her is subtly overruling that anger bit by bit. It's not alright, and she's not fine, and as much as her eyes might plead with him, he's not going to smile about this. There's nothing to smile about, not even to indulge her. He can't be happy.
Not while she's bleeding in his arms like this, unable to speak, barely breathing. Nothing about it would be real.
When he smiles at her he wants it to be real, always.]
[action]
She should know better.]
Stop pushing yourself. Just get some rest.
[It's a quiet, chiding tone, more gentle than his previous words; he's still angry, no denying that, but his concern for her is subtly overruling that anger bit by bit. It's not alright, and she's not fine, and as much as her eyes might plead with him, he's not going to smile about this. There's nothing to smile about, not even to indulge her. He can't be happy.
Not while she's bleeding in his arms like this, unable to speak, barely breathing. Nothing about it would be real.
When he smiles at her he wants it to be real, always.]