[ Her gaze flickers up immediately to fall on Sam. As numb as ever, she moves out from behind the bar automatically, going to him. When she approaches, she opens her mouth to explain, but the words fail her. How can she tell him what's happening when she doesn't know herself?
There's so much to say. Any part of her that would have been wary, would have held back or worried about what Robin had told her, it gets buried quickly by the gentleness she sees in his expression. The concern. He's never been anything but a friend to her, a confidante.
So when she reaches for words, and they do finally come to her, they still never make it out of her mouth—but her lips tremble, and she raises her hands to cover them, tears welling up and finally falling as distress contorts her features. It hits her like a ton of bricks. Action mode fails because there's too much downtime between her and anything she can do. Packing, driving, flying. A series of too much time to think and too long to wait, to be left wondering.
With the adrenaline dump fading, it all sinks in. He could already be dead. The thought shakes her breath, draws it in like a hiccup, and her shoulders begin to tremble as well. ]
I can't — [ But the tears quickly grow too intense to speak through, her throat closing up. She can't do that again: all she can think is that he could already be gone, she could already be too late because she didn't reach out, didn't notice, didn't know how to after what she'd done, and now it might have cost her the opportunity to save him. Just like she'd missed her window to save Thomas. She can't do it again. Can't be too late, can't find the corpse of a loved one and watch the body get cleaned out. ]
no subject
There's so much to say. Any part of her that would have been wary, would have held back or worried about what Robin had told her, it gets buried quickly by the gentleness she sees in his expression. The concern. He's never been anything but a friend to her, a confidante.
So when she reaches for words, and they do finally come to her, they still never make it out of her mouth—but her lips tremble, and she raises her hands to cover them, tears welling up and finally falling as distress contorts her features. It hits her like a ton of bricks. Action mode fails because there's too much downtime between her and anything she can do. Packing, driving, flying. A series of too much time to think and too long to wait, to be left wondering.
With the adrenaline dump fading, it all sinks in. He could already be dead. The thought shakes her breath, draws it in like a hiccup, and her shoulders begin to tremble as well. ]
I can't — [ But the tears quickly grow too intense to speak through, her throat closing up. She can't do that again: all she can think is that he could already be gone, she could already be too late because she didn't reach out, didn't notice, didn't know how to after what she'd done, and now it might have cost her the opportunity to save him. Just like she'd missed her window to save Thomas. She can't do it again. Can't be too late, can't find the corpse of a loved one and watch the body get cleaned out. ]