[ Won't acknowledge him that far, or has spent years acknowledging him too far.
The tension in Gaelio's white-knuckled grip buried at his collar, shifting to his throat, hums against the quiet placement of his own touch. It's as if the more he avoids striking back at him with matching fury, the more Gaelio is wounded. It occurs to him a little too late, the thought that he might be seeking fire to stoke and give meaning to his own.
The strange logic, born from twisted origins brought on by McGillis, that lies within that train of thought begins to take hold and spread.
His demand settles with a little more clarity. Why not, as though Gaelio was fit to kill once, but not twice? Effort exerted only at his convenience. Even McGillis's all-encompassing rage passes over Gaelio if he allows it to lie dormant after the fact of their clashing. His death becomes nothing but the stepping stone he'd described it as, and with no stones to step on here with it, not worth the effort to pursue again.
Far from the much stranger truth, and yet, it would be convenient to allow him to believe it...
Gaelio's features return to him. Something wrenches in him, to see them twisting from this distance. With clarity sinking in, the shadow in his heart flutters, lifts, and as Gaelio staggers, McGillis turns his wrist and tightens fingers, the gloved hand slipping away from him grasped once before it goes.
The shape of it barely felt, but somewhere in the back of his mind, the wellspring of memories that he keeps hidden and tucked away sings with this new one. A stolen addition. Dead, but alive, a pulse there, warmth. The shape of it.
Gaelio goes and sinks to the ground. He sits there as if the weight of this interaction has alone felled him. His voice strange, his rambling agreement bringing them to yet another standstill. He sounds less certain than he did in Bael's hangar, that understanding would be achieved once they reach and fall from the greatest of heights.
McGillis lifts away from the tree and stands above him, watching him crumple and fold and unfold: incredible, the extent to which he is an external creature. All that passes through him colors and becomes the air around him. That hasn't changed about him.
That fluttering shadow persists, the veil of his expression responding.
He speaks again of terms, and McGillis watches the ground now. ]
Fate had a hand in bringing us here, or we would not be here. That the two of us were chosen for it...
1/2
The tension in Gaelio's white-knuckled grip buried at his collar, shifting to his throat, hums against the quiet placement of his own touch. It's as if the more he avoids striking back at him with matching fury, the more Gaelio is wounded. It occurs to him a little too late, the thought that he might be seeking fire to stoke and give meaning to his own.
The strange logic, born from twisted origins brought on by McGillis, that lies within that train of thought begins to take hold and spread.
His demand settles with a little more clarity. Why not, as though Gaelio was fit to kill once, but not twice? Effort exerted only at his convenience. Even McGillis's all-encompassing rage passes over Gaelio if he allows it to lie dormant after the fact of their clashing. His death becomes nothing but the stepping stone he'd described it as, and with no stones to step on here with it, not worth the effort to pursue again.
Far from the much stranger truth, and yet, it would be convenient to allow him to believe it...
Gaelio's features return to him. Something wrenches in him, to see them twisting from this distance. With clarity sinking in, the shadow in his heart flutters, lifts, and as Gaelio staggers, McGillis turns his wrist and tightens fingers, the gloved hand slipping away from him grasped once before it goes.
The shape of it barely felt, but somewhere in the back of his mind, the wellspring of memories that he keeps hidden and tucked away sings with this new one. A stolen addition. Dead, but alive, a pulse there, warmth. The shape of it.
Gaelio goes and sinks to the ground. He sits there as if the weight of this interaction has alone felled him. His voice strange, his rambling agreement bringing them to yet another standstill. He sounds less certain than he did in Bael's hangar, that understanding would be achieved once they reach and fall from the greatest of heights.
McGillis lifts away from the tree and stands above him, watching him crumple and fold and unfold: incredible, the extent to which he is an external creature. All that passes through him colors and becomes the air around him. That hasn't changed about him.
That fluttering shadow persists, the veil of his expression responding.
He speaks again of terms, and McGillis watches the ground now. ]
Fate had a hand in bringing us here, or we would not be here. That the two of us were chosen for it...