( he can't kill her, certainly, but hurting her is not something the symbiote will keep him from, and there are so many ways to hurt that are worse than death. that he is not counted among the things she should be afraid of — it infuriates him, and it is getting so difficult to remember why he should care about restraining himself.
elena has stefan now. sam doesn't need him. this whole brood — this whole nest is full of people who think they have any room to comment on others' heads just because they're inside them, as if they're not all as fucked up as each other. as if they know anything about fear, or pain, or loss. none of them truly knows the others, no matter how far in their heads they get, and that they pretend they do is laughable. it's insulting. misato can disengage and feel so superior, looks at him and sees someone out of control of his own emotions, and yet thinks she can understand him.
in a blur of motion, damon has misato pinned against the wall, fangs bared, grip vice-like. )
I told you it doesn't bother me.
( obviously a lie, especially now, but one she should have listened to. these memories aren't hers to pick over and prod at just because she's seen glimpses of them, just like they aren't sam's. at least he understands when to shut his fucking mouth. )
[ What can Misato possibly know of pain, of fear, of loss? What does it mean to become a victim? How can a subject give an account of its own ruin? There is no way to quantify tragedy, each person's suffering is an infinity unto itself. In the face of such futility she has swallowed back her wordless howling to stoke the fire in her belly, while he still screams. A wounded creature, hissing at the hands of any who extends help. Similar and different, but certainly familiar.
Her head spins from the motion, back smarting to signal the bruises she would find there tomorrow, heart in her throat. Adrenaline has her blood pumping fast, senses in hyperfocus. Fear is a physical response, a feeling and a reaction. She can't help the first two, but the last she can control. Gaze as determined as ever, she rests her hands on his cheeks, her hold firm even if unnecessary.
This is all about the mind, see, the scenes she presses into his view flipping past like a family album: Damon sitting on the couch beside her in the hotel room, the comforting weight of his arm on her shoulder; Damon and Sam, laughing at some secret joke; Damon with his eyes on Elena, his heart's desire clear for all the world to see. This is here, now. That was then. The past no longer is. The rest of the scenes are unfamiliar to him: the firm grip of thickly gloved hands, arctic winds nipping her cheeks and the delicate anticipation for reconciliation; the smell of breakfast in the morning, the patter of feet rushing about the house, the warmth of waking up to a home; the scent of cigarettes in the air and an unbearable fullness in her heart.
The message underlying every single one: come back. Here, not there. ]
( misato can know her own loss, can carry it with her wherever she goes and use it to make her stronger, but she doesn't know damon's. each man is an island unto himself, and no matter the bridges the symbiotes build, that will never stop being true. people are better off when they stop pretending that they can understand and heal each other, as if it's that simple, as if affection and words can undo years of damage.
pain isn't anything but pain. the only thing that can lessen it is a person's own will, and damon has never had problems admitting he's deficient when it comes to that.
hell, he's just deficient in general.
misato places her hands on his cheeks and he sees scenes like pictures, watches himself from the outside — his arm around misato's shoulder, sharing a conspiratorial smile with sam, watching elena. the scenes flip, and now they're all unfamiliar, scenes from misato's life before she came to the station. every one, his scenes and hers, all carry the same feeling: leave the past in the past. live in the moment, focus on what's here.
he'd been doing a fine job of that before sam had dredged all of this up. before she'd decided that he wasn't coping properly and needed to be taught how to leave the past where it belongs. )
Stop, ( he growls, and if his voice breaks on the word he barrels through it, not pausing to give misato a chance to call him on it before he's whipped around and thrown her across the room — onto the bed, where no real damage will be done. )
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elena has stefan now. sam doesn't need him. this whole brood — this whole nest is full of people who think they have any room to comment on others' heads just because they're inside them, as if they're not all as fucked up as each other. as if they know anything about fear, or pain, or loss. none of them truly knows the others, no matter how far in their heads they get, and that they pretend they do is laughable. it's insulting. misato can disengage and feel so superior, looks at him and sees someone out of control of his own emotions, and yet thinks she can understand him.
in a blur of motion, damon has misato pinned against the wall, fangs bared, grip vice-like. )
I told you it doesn't bother me.
( obviously a lie, especially now, but one she should have listened to. these memories aren't hers to pick over and prod at just because she's seen glimpses of them, just like they aren't sam's. at least he understands when to shut his fucking mouth. )
no subject
Her head spins from the motion, back smarting to signal the bruises she would find there tomorrow, heart in her throat. Adrenaline has her blood pumping fast, senses in hyperfocus. Fear is a physical response, a feeling and a reaction. She can't help the first two, but the last she can control. Gaze as determined as ever, she rests her hands on his cheeks, her hold firm even if unnecessary.
This is all about the mind, see, the scenes she presses into his view flipping past like a family album: Damon sitting on the couch beside her in the hotel room, the comforting weight of his arm on her shoulder; Damon and Sam, laughing at some secret joke; Damon with his eyes on Elena, his heart's desire clear for all the world to see. This is here, now. That was then. The past no longer is. The rest of the scenes are unfamiliar to him: the firm grip of thickly gloved hands, arctic winds nipping her cheeks and the delicate anticipation for reconciliation; the smell of breakfast in the morning, the patter of feet rushing about the house, the warmth of waking up to a home; the scent of cigarettes in the air and an unbearable fullness in her heart.
The message underlying every single one: come back. Here, not there. ]
no subject
pain isn't anything but pain. the only thing that can lessen it is a person's own will, and damon has never had problems admitting he's deficient when it comes to that.
hell, he's just deficient in general.
misato places her hands on his cheeks and he sees scenes like pictures, watches himself from the outside — his arm around misato's shoulder, sharing a conspiratorial smile with sam, watching elena. the scenes flip, and now they're all unfamiliar, scenes from misato's life before she came to the station. every one, his scenes and hers, all carry the same feeling: leave the past in the past. live in the moment, focus on what's here.
he'd been doing a fine job of that before sam had dredged all of this up. before she'd decided that he wasn't coping properly and needed to be taught how to leave the past where it belongs. )
Stop, ( he growls, and if his voice breaks on the word he barrels through it, not pausing to give misato a chance to call him on it before he's whipped around and thrown her across the room — onto the bed, where no real damage will be done. )