(She's processing it, too. It's an inescapable cycle she finds herself in with Quentin. Dead, not by his hand, but through the hot, fully-loaded gun he can become. Brought back. Betrayed. Every corner she looks at in her life, he's also there. She hasn't lived enough, it was taken from her.
Esme, with all her flaws, Sophie can forgive. Phoebe, she can forgive. They're always going to be all she has, no matter how close, or how separated. They're parts of her that she doesn't know how to live without, but Esme didn't kill her just the once, and Sophie even went as far as sacrificing herself for her. She keeps trying, and trying, and trying, even when she's freaking dead. Fucking Esme.
Fucking Quentin, too. For the smartest kid she knows, he's an Omega-level dumbass. Of course, she is mad at him; how could she not be? Does it not occur to him that the issue had never just been that absurd riot? And why would Phoebe, who had the complete facts of it, tell him? She'd lose her upper hand, make him think of a time when she was not in the picture, probably — that would be stupid. Cuckoos are anything but dumb, they're cunning, manipulative, and all things in between.
The thing that makes her turn around is not the words, but the sound of glass. It startles her enough to look back at him with goggled eyes, concern overriding the pettiness of not letting glance at her expression. Worry is definitely a worse look in her book than anger, but she can't help it. They can go back to yelling at each other in a second. Right now, her TK opens a drawer to bring a little box of supplies to her hand as she walks carefully to not step on anything on her way towards him.
No ceremonies, she's going to check his hand for injury because if she used her TK to break things, she'd have a billion scars, but of course, he has none.
Of course.
Once she realizes he needs no patching, the box is carefully settled on the nearest surface. At least her kinder nature has her way less fired up now that it moved through the motions of anger to some care.)
I know you didn't know, and Phoebe would gain nothing from telling you.
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Esme, with all her flaws, Sophie can forgive. Phoebe, she can forgive. They're always going to be all she has, no matter how close, or how separated. They're parts of her that she doesn't know how to live without, but Esme didn't kill her just the once, and Sophie even went as far as sacrificing herself for her. She keeps trying, and trying, and trying, even when she's freaking dead. Fucking Esme.
Fucking Quentin, too. For the smartest kid she knows, he's an Omega-level dumbass. Of course, she is mad at him; how could she not be? Does it not occur to him that the issue had never just been that absurd riot? And why would Phoebe, who had the complete facts of it, tell him? She'd lose her upper hand, make him think of a time when she was not in the picture, probably — that would be stupid. Cuckoos are anything but dumb, they're cunning, manipulative, and all things in between.
The thing that makes her turn around is not the words, but the sound of glass. It startles her enough to look back at him with goggled eyes, concern overriding the pettiness of not letting glance at her expression. Worry is definitely a worse look in her book than anger, but she can't help it. They can go back to yelling at each other in a second. Right now, her TK opens a drawer to bring a little box of supplies to her hand as she walks carefully to not step on anything on her way towards him.
No ceremonies, she's going to check his hand for injury because if she used her TK to break things, she'd have a billion scars, but of course, he has none.
Of course.
Once she realizes he needs no patching, the box is carefully settled on the nearest surface. At least her kinder nature has her way less fired up now that it moved through the motions of anger to some care.)
I know you didn't know, and Phoebe would gain nothing from telling you.