Libby does look up. She does see. And if he's guilt and disappointment she's instant protective anger, burning through her contentment. Not good enough. Says who? He's good enough to care about her, of all people. Good enough to carry this burden she can't name but knows in his shoulders' set. Good enough to have a sister he loves and misses. Not good enough for what? Not able to live up to someone Libby's never seen do anything?
She doesn't care about the name. Names mean nothing to Libby, she puts them on and takes them off like clothes--Wren, Peregrine, Mockingbird, Shrike, Liberty, they don't matter. Except this name matters to James, and for some reason he thinks he couldn't have it if he wanted it. It's not that she wants him to be Captain America, who means nothing to her. It's that she wants him to think he can be anything, because he can.
Libby tosses down the needles and squares off in front of him, eyes flashing bright and blue as electric current: "And you're fucking perfect."
It's drunken hyperbole, but it's felt, meant. She doesn't have the real vocabulary for what she wants to say, which is that to her he's perfect. He sits there with every future in the world and denies himself one, when Libby wants him to have all of them. Every choice should be one he gets to believe in.
So she kisses him because it's all she really knows how to do, at this point. Tattoo unfinished, with her fingers smeared in ink marring the clean skin of his arms as she takes hold of him and leaves tiny smudged handprints that will stain and last, her mouth sweet and sharp at the same time, eyes screwed shut--she doesn't know what to do with him, because he hurts like her, so maybe this. Maybe she does this, and he gets it, that somebody wants him exactly the way he is. That they all might think he's a screw up, but she doesn't, and she tries to fit it all inside the slanting of her mouth against his and it pours out of the corners anyway in a frustrated little breath.
no subject
She doesn't care about the name. Names mean nothing to Libby, she puts them on and takes them off like clothes--Wren, Peregrine, Mockingbird, Shrike, Liberty, they don't matter. Except this name matters to James, and for some reason he thinks he couldn't have it if he wanted it. It's not that she wants him to be Captain America, who means nothing to her. It's that she wants him to think he can be anything, because he can.
Libby tosses down the needles and squares off in front of him, eyes flashing bright and blue as electric current: "And you're fucking perfect."
It's drunken hyperbole, but it's felt, meant. She doesn't have the real vocabulary for what she wants to say, which is that to her he's perfect. He sits there with every future in the world and denies himself one, when Libby wants him to have all of them. Every choice should be one he gets to believe in.
So she kisses him because it's all she really knows how to do, at this point. Tattoo unfinished, with her fingers smeared in ink marring the clean skin of his arms as she takes hold of him and leaves tiny smudged handprints that will stain and last, her mouth sweet and sharp at the same time, eyes screwed shut--she doesn't know what to do with him, because he hurts like her, so maybe this. Maybe she does this, and he gets it, that somebody wants him exactly the way he is. That they all might think he's a screw up, but she doesn't, and she tries to fit it all inside the slanting of her mouth against his and it pours out of the corners anyway in a frustrated little breath.