That. Zevran just looking like he'd forgotten some sort of important date and was a bit embarrassed, but all things considered thought it was actually a rather minor concern. That was the hand in the proverbial side. Because while appearances and pet names and voices were one thing, that attitude was entirely another, and . . . Christ, Jack didn't actually know any more. Maybe Luceti had him doubting what his own eyes told him more than he'd ever realized, or maybe it was just his own penchant for skepticism that had chosen this of all possible times to be especially problematic. Regardless, his shock finally began to dissolve rapidly into a roiling mess of other feelings - bafflement and outrage, of course, but there were stranger things in there too. Renewed-but-abruptly-obsolete grief. Unreasonable terror that this was some illusion or dream, fated to end abruptly and mercilessly.
And joy. Joy was the strangest of all, and the one he was absolutely least prepared to feel cascading down on him in a too-slow acceleration, like all those chunks of concrete and steel in the slow-motion footage of a building being demolished.
"You- rgh, yes-" he interrupted himself, and although even inane and obvious questions needed answers, he found that even having to answer that in the first place had helped fuel the beginning of an impressive rant. He glared up finally, still overwhelmed but clearer, sharper. "-but, you . . . ngh. You bastard, you utter-"
That was the place where the accusations fit. The you died and the of all the hypocrisies and the do you have any idea what the last nine days have been like. But when he let loose, the most needling, most insulting thing of all shoved its way to the front.
"How long have you been here?" It was more demand, more declamation, than actual question. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know. "Here, in the bloody kitchen! All of us in this constant state of missing you, every. Damned. Day, and you're sitting here drinking a coffee in the other room like- like-!" He'd gotten to his feet at some point in all of that, and stood now, breathing visibly and fumbling for the next word in that chain of strident objections. But it felt good for a moment, to just be loud, to be upset with Zevran for being so never-endingly stupid.
Because everyone died, sooner or later. That wasn't the worst part. The torture came from never quite knowing if someone was alive.
no subject
And joy. Joy was the strangest of all, and the one he was absolutely least prepared to feel cascading down on him in a too-slow acceleration, like all those chunks of concrete and steel in the slow-motion footage of a building being demolished.
"You- rgh, yes-" he interrupted himself, and although even inane and obvious questions needed answers, he found that even having to answer that in the first place had helped fuel the beginning of an impressive rant. He glared up finally, still overwhelmed but clearer, sharper. "-but, you . . . ngh. You bastard, you utter-"
That was the place where the accusations fit. The you died and the of all the hypocrisies and the do you have any idea what the last nine days have been like. But when he let loose, the most needling, most insulting thing of all shoved its way to the front.
"How long have you been here?" It was more demand, more declamation, than actual question. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know. "Here, in the bloody kitchen! All of us in this constant state of missing you, every. Damned. Day, and you're sitting here drinking a coffee in the other room like- like-!" He'd gotten to his feet at some point in all of that, and stood now, breathing visibly and fumbling for the next word in that chain of strident objections. But it felt good for a moment, to just be loud, to be upset with Zevran for being so never-endingly stupid.
Because everyone died, sooner or later. That wasn't the worst part. The torture came from never quite knowing if someone was alive.