[She pokes his chest with one clawed fingertip.] Scared. [She can tell that he doesn't mean to deceive her, but he is... not great with this. Reluctantly, as if pulling teeth, she continues.] I do not know how to talk about my condition. [There. Ugh! Now his turn.]
[She flinches, hearing her words again. That wasn't easy to say. And she doesn't want to talk about it.] It means what it means. [She glances up, trying to see if there's an easy way around him, or through a window. Maybe she can hold him with wind as she makes for the harbour.]
[While Purl was always the better of the two of them when it came to sniffing out lies, Pom isn't entirely incapable of it: one has to be decent at guessing motivations to keep up a convincing, charming mask, after all. However, it's far harder for him to do when it comes to someone he trusts - someone he's willing to believe outright rather than the alternative.
His claws dig into his palm again; he rubs the back of his neck idly with his other hand.]
I didn't...
[This is his fault. He should have known. He should have protected her. He should have—]
Nevermind. Let's just... figure it out another time, I guess.
[His guilt floods their bond and this! This is why she hates talking! It's never just on her! It's everyone who feels they should have prevented her from any hardship. So she can't hurt, or be broken or have a bad day!] I want to feed you. [Because that will help. Maybe.]
You are afraid... [She knew it before, but thought it was all about her — about her failing to be well. This makes more sense.] What happened? [She takes his hand in her own, hers comically tiny against his.]
I will love you. [She bounces up and presses a kiss to his lips.] But you do not need to say if you do not wish to. [She can guess. There's only so many things it could be. And cannibalism in survival situations was not unheard of in her world, though it must be simpler when the dead leave more than drops.]
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What do you mean by that?
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Fear is the result of uncertainty or perceived threat. [Also: Pom, right now.]
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No, I meant about you talking. You don't know how to talk about it. What do you mean by that?
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What, is it painful?
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[While Purl was always the better of the two of them when it came to sniffing out lies, Pom isn't entirely incapable of it: one has to be decent at guessing motivations to keep up a convincing, charming mask, after all. However, it's far harder for him to do when it comes to someone he trusts - someone he's willing to believe outright rather than the alternative.
His claws dig into his palm again; he rubs the back of his neck idly with his other hand.]
I didn't...
[This is his fault. He should have known. He should have protected her. He should have—]
Nevermind. Let's just... figure it out another time, I guess.
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[Hungry as he is, that's entirely honest.]
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[He tries to stifle what he really feels - not apathy, but apprehension. Pain blossoms in his fist, his claws against his skin.]
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[Ignore how he's just balled that hand up into a fist, Northly. Ignore the blood gathering between his knuckles.]
You can't talk about it, and I don't want to talk about it, so let's not talk about it.
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