There is, maybe, a liquid brightness in her eyes. A hitch to her voice, just for a second. Darlington doesn't think he's imagining it. He's still so, so angry, the feeling of it roiling deep in the pit of his stomach, but the fact of those things--her fury, her sadness, all that they've entrusted each other with already--keeps it from spilling forth once more.
He's made so many mistakes. Failed her, again, and this time there's not even Lethe to share the blame.
"I wanted to do it again," he says, his own voice coming out faintly hoarse. He swallows once, hard. "And I knew I couldn't, because that's not...it wasn't going to happen again. There's no Lethe here, no need for Virgil or Dante, and I thought maybe in the absence of that? Maybe we could be friends. And we almost were. And now I don't know what to be to you."
Slowly, he goes past her, keeping far enough away that there's no possibility of either of them touching the other. He doesn't know, exactly, why he does it. Flipping the lock on the front door, he pulls it open. "But it seems now that the answer is nothing at all."
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He's made so many mistakes. Failed her, again, and this time there's not even Lethe to share the blame.
"I wanted to do it again," he says, his own voice coming out faintly hoarse. He swallows once, hard. "And I knew I couldn't, because that's not...it wasn't going to happen again. There's no Lethe here, no need for Virgil or Dante, and I thought maybe in the absence of that? Maybe we could be friends. And we almost were. And now I don't know what to be to you."
Slowly, he goes past her, keeping far enough away that there's no possibility of either of them touching the other. He doesn't know, exactly, why he does it. Flipping the lock on the front door, he pulls it open. "But it seems now that the answer is nothing at all."