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[poetryslamming]

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[reiterated]

[ She's a bundle of nerves and repressed aggression, the way you become when you're helplessly stuck with yourself and somebody else's mess. He understands, even if he rarely acknowledges why - after all, women and children they tend to say, the men, when they go to war. Either leave them or take them. Leave or take. He watches as she lifts her arm high enough that it can't be comfortable for her. There's a regular set of fingerprints there, he thinks. Evidence. Evidence of nothing, except how the world works, if anyone's in any fucking doubt.

He's getting angry now and has to breathe slowly once again, to temper it. Later, maybe. Perhaps he'll go back, once she's safely tucked away in a bed somewhere. He thinks, forbiddingly, about Alex. If anyone had ever done anything like this to him...

But they didn't. And right now, he needs to concentrate. Pish, past is past, look at his present! Look! ]

Nothing for it. [ He holds out his arm for her to grab if she so chooses. ] Let's go, my dear. We have a long, long road ahead of us and the stars won't be out for long.

[ He doesn't elaborate. After all, he trusts her to ask if she wants to know, if she wants to come with - or to refuse. He leaves all the doors open for her, basically, as he's won't to do; that's how they work best, the two of them. Open roads, open skies, such and such. ]