(He does have a storyteller's voice. He uses it to glorify two centuries worth of suffering for her and while Abby listens, the lick of righteous anger in her chest fizzles out completely. Something sharp takes its place, something she can hardly bear to examine. He's the victim of a single person who carelessly turned his life upside down, and how could she possibly not empathise with that. It sits so uncomfortably. It brings no relief. It seems childish to her that she ever thought this might balance something out between them.
It's not the first time she's forgotten she doesn't have a monopoly on pain, and loss.)
... I won't tell, (is the only thing she can think of to say, short and aching. She won't tell anybody about this or make snide jokes, and not only out of self-preservation.
It occurs to her that this is exactly how her and Ellie have been operating around each other. They carefully hold onto each other's key bits of information, and relax under the assurance of mutual self-destruction. It's no way to live, but people like them don't know many other ways.)
no subject
It's not the first time she's forgotten she doesn't have a monopoly on pain, and loss.)
... I won't tell, (is the only thing she can think of to say, short and aching. She won't tell anybody about this or make snide jokes, and not only out of self-preservation.
It occurs to her that this is exactly how her and Ellie have been operating around each other. They carefully hold onto each other's key bits of information, and relax under the assurance of mutual self-destruction. It's no way to live, but people like them don't know many other ways.)