Luke watched her a long moment, his expression still somewhat disbelieving, before reaching for the pot and pouring two cups of tea. It was not expertly done--there were bits of leaf floating in it--but it was hot, and it would, at least, calm him.
Part of him wanted to spill everything. Every desire, every moment of loneliness or connection, every answer to her questions both asked and not. It was that reservoir that had built up, unnoticed, now offering sustained pressure on the dam he'd built now that she'd shown him the cracks.
But another part simply couldn't accept that any of this was happening. And still another part knew that it was, and refused to give in to it because it should not be happening. There were more important things happening, and he could fully accept his own decision to ignore them but not hers.
"There have been... people," he said after a moment, very slowly. He wrapped his hands around one mug, leaving the other next to the pot. Why, oh why, was he talking about his love life with the girl who'd come here to be trained? "Not many. But it never lasted. It couldn't. They either wanted something I could not give, or wanted someone I never was." He shrugged, and took a sip of his tea. It almost burned his tongue, and he rather welcomed the shock of it. "Or maybe it was I who asked too much. Expected them to share me with what I saw as my greater mission."
This was raw, this was personal, but it was, thus far, easier to bemoan the losses of the past than deal with the confusion of the present. But he could hardly leave that out there, fluttering in the cruel wind. He looked down at his mug, but watched her from lowered brows.
"What is it," he began quietly, "you think there is to pursue, here? You had a dream. A dream which, whatever you say, may or may not have been influenced by the lonely fantasies of an old man with a tenuous grasp on reality, not to mention decorum. You speak as though you'd be ... giving something up, to forget about it. When any rational being in the universe would see the balance in exactly the opposite way."
no subject
Part of him wanted to spill everything. Every desire, every moment of loneliness or connection, every answer to her questions both asked and not. It was that reservoir that had built up, unnoticed, now offering sustained pressure on the dam he'd built now that she'd shown him the cracks.
But another part simply couldn't accept that any of this was happening. And still another part knew that it was, and refused to give in to it because it should not be happening. There were more important things happening, and he could fully accept his own decision to ignore them but not hers.
"There have been... people," he said after a moment, very slowly. He wrapped his hands around one mug, leaving the other next to the pot. Why, oh why, was he talking about his love life with the girl who'd come here to be trained? "Not many. But it never lasted. It couldn't. They either wanted something I could not give, or wanted someone I never was." He shrugged, and took a sip of his tea. It almost burned his tongue, and he rather welcomed the shock of it. "Or maybe it was I who asked too much. Expected them to share me with what I saw as my greater mission."
This was raw, this was personal, but it was, thus far, easier to bemoan the losses of the past than deal with the confusion of the present. But he could hardly leave that out there, fluttering in the cruel wind. He looked down at his mug, but watched her from lowered brows.
"What is it," he began quietly, "you think there is to pursue, here? You had a dream. A dream which, whatever you say, may or may not have been influenced by the lonely fantasies of an old man with a tenuous grasp on reality, not to mention decorum. You speak as though you'd be ... giving something up, to forget about it. When any rational being in the universe would see the balance in exactly the opposite way."