book 5: wounds

She can't hurt him. No matter how deep, no matter how complicated the situation... this is Gilgamesh. Jael doesn't idealize anyone. She's never idealized anyone, but then... but then there's him. Then there's the man that rests beside her. She wouldn't retaliate. He is hurting, both physically and emotionally. This isn't his fault. Jael will continue to blame herself. Blame herself, yes, and not let go.

Sanity. The word slipped past his lips, standing out, bold within her mind. His chin resting on the floor beside her-- Jael knows she shouldn't, but maybe the long dredge from the bottle on an empty stomach had done something to her. She tips her head slightly to rest against his, just her temple close to his muzzle. Just resting there, if he'd allow it. Tender. Though a snarl rippled through him, echoing as a tightness in her stomach, she doesn't move. Flinches, but doesn't withdraw. No. Though a little shake, a whimper, rippled through Jael's system... she doesn't withdraw.

Appeasement looked different, here. Tension in him, and she'd try to absorb it. No, Jael can't quite hide away the little whimper as it slips past, she can feel the tension in him. Feeding off it, to a degree. Mirroring it. "She tried to rip your heart out, Gil." No more than a whisper. Jael wasn't passing judgement, she was stating a fact. No, she doesn't blame Modesty here, either. Only herself. "We might be past sanity." But that doesn't drive her from his side. Instead she remains beside him. Mind racing as she tries to figure out how to diffuse him, her posture ringing for appeasement, greater lengths than she'd gone for... anyone? Why?

She knows why.