[He starts in on the book, and she throws her phone down on the bed so she can hold her head in both hands. She wants to tell him it wasn't stupid, she didn't write shit, that even if she's not a master of the turn of phrase, it was one of the few things she was proud of, at least before they all made their stances known. Before she realized it had just made things worse.
It's a long moment before she can pick the phone back up, ready to apologize just to avoid whatever vitriol he wants to throw at her. She's been more afraid of that than any ability he has for years. What she skims pulls her up short, thumbs paused to type that I'm sorry.]
We were kids. That was YEARS ago, why does that mean anything now?
[He blinks and stares at the message when it finally comes in. Every ounce of anything shaped a little like hope disappeared instantly at that, sinking low, buried deep where it can't see the light of day, shoved back down where it belongs.
The next set of words are somehow knee-jerk and carefully measured all at once.]
Dad's abuse was years ago, too. We're all still affected by that, aren't we?
[Life as a Hargreeves has never been great, and apparently they were all so fucked up that the rare half-seconds of halfway okay-decent-good things had no hope of influencing anything for all the awful, rotten abuse's overshadow.]
[She starts to type he didn't abuse us out of some gut-response; she can't get past he before she backspaces it out of existence, feeling her anger and guilt gnaw into each other until they're one. Of course that's what it was - she's pretty sure one of the therapists she saw called it as much. But it, like so many other things that therapist had to say to her, was hard to swallow. She'd stopped going not long after that session.
So is this, though, so maybe it was less the therapist and more the subject matter.
An ache is building in the back of her skull, and she finds herself rubbing at her ear in a sub-conscious turned conscious gesture that just intensifies the headache. There's too much circling, and she clenches her jaw to keep from - what, what is she afraid of, what is she always afraid of?
(Being heard. Being a nuisance. Existing.)
The desire to just let go of it - to disengage from all these terrible, miserable feelings, is massive. Nearly irresistible, because she felt it. At the Academy, at her apartment, the Icarus. She was playing the best she ever had, and it was - not because she didn't care, but because she'd let go of everything holding her back. The guilt, the fear, anyone's judgement on her own worth.
Resisting the urge to do it again is almost impossible.
Leaving her phone behind, Vanya slips out of bed to stand in front of her window, leaning her forehead against cool panes and watching her breath fog the glass. He wants to try - Diego, of all people, wants to try. What does it say about her if she won't let him?
It's a long while before she gets back to her device, and once it's in hand the text at least comes fast.]
[He isn't expecting that. He isn't expecting that at all.
He stares at the screen for several, long minutes before he finds his words.]
I don't know. Wherever. I basically know Nonah and Jeopardy. I can come to you, if you want, though.
[He doesn't really have problems navigating unknown places, so it really wouldn't be a problem. Where... that sort of thing really might be problematic for Vanya.]
[There's another pause before her response comes - not nearly as long, but those three dots keep showing and vanishing while she tries to word it right.]
will you?
[He just said he would, and she has to roll her eyes at herself, fumbling to add something else quickly.]
No, it's fine no big deal. Around 1? Or... earlier? Doesn't have to be lunch. We could do breakfast. Whatever you want.
[He may not know her well, and especially not now, but it doesn't take a genius to know Vanya and anxiety are practically synonyms. Waiting around half the day for something might just drive her up a wall.]
[She is synonymous with anxiety, and part of her really misses having a very effective mute button. Fewer and fewer of her coping mechanisms have been working - and it doesn't help that she's without, maybe permanently without the most effective one.
Yeah, I'll meet you at your place and we'll go from there?
[Holyshit. He can't believe she agreed. Honestly, he thought she'd shoot him down, immediately, stop talking and ignore him. But she kept talking, wanting to understand why he would even try. Even if this goes horribly wrong, she agreed, and that feels like the biggest first win in the glacier-slow rebuild of their relationship.]
[She makes herself send him the address, though her shoulders might as well be made of tension rods.] it's number seven
[And she immediately regrets this and is burying her phone under two pillows so that she can curl up at the foot of her bed and not hear it ding again.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It's a long moment before she can pick the phone back up, ready to apologize just to avoid whatever vitriol he wants to throw at her. She's been more afraid of that than any ability he has for years. What she skims pulls her up short, thumbs paused to type that I'm sorry.]
We were kids. That was YEARS ago, why does that mean anything now?
no subject
The next set of words are somehow knee-jerk and carefully measured all at once.]
Dad's abuse was years ago,
too.
We're all still affected by that, aren't we?
[Life as a Hargreeves has never been great, and apparently they were all so fucked up that the rare half-seconds of halfway okay-decent-good things had no hope of influencing anything for all the awful, rotten abuse's overshadow.]
no subject
So is this, though, so maybe it was less the therapist and more the subject matter.
An ache is building in the back of her skull, and she finds herself rubbing at her ear in a sub-conscious turned conscious gesture that just intensifies the headache. There's too much circling, and she clenches her jaw to keep from - what, what is she afraid of, what is she always afraid of?
(Being heard. Being a nuisance. Existing.)
The desire to just let go of it - to disengage from all these terrible, miserable feelings, is massive. Nearly irresistible, because she felt it. At the Academy, at her apartment, the Icarus. She was playing the best she ever had, and it was - not because she didn't care, but because she'd let go of everything holding her back. The guilt, the fear, anyone's judgement on her own worth.
Resisting the urge to do it again is almost impossible.
Leaving her phone behind, Vanya slips out of bed to stand in front of her window, leaning her forehead against cool panes and watching her breath fog the glass. He wants to try - Diego, of all people, wants to try. What does it say about her if she won't let him?
It's a long while before she gets back to her device, and once it's in hand the text at least comes fast.]
Okay. where do you wanna get lunch
no subject
He isn't expecting that at all.
He stares at the screen for several, long minutes before he finds his words.]
I don't know. Wherever.
I basically know Nonah and Jeopardy.
I can come to you, if you want, though.
[He doesn't really have problems navigating unknown places, so it really wouldn't be a problem. Where... that sort of thing really might be problematic for Vanya.]
no subject
will you?
[He just said he would, and she has to roll her eyes at herself, fumbling to add something else quickly.]
I mean you don't mind?
no subject
fineno big deal.Around 1?
Or... earlier?
Doesn't have to be lunch. We could do breakfast.
Whatever you want.
[He may not know her well, and especially not now, but it doesn't take a genius to know Vanya and anxiety are practically synonyms. Waiting around half the day for something might just drive her up a wall.]
no subject
Point is, he's right.]
11? is that okay
no subject
[Holyshit. He can't believe she agreed. Honestly, he thought she'd shoot him down, immediately, stop talking and ignore him. But she kept talking, wanting to understand why he would even try. Even if this goes horribly wrong, she agreed, and that feels like the biggest first win in the glacier-slow rebuild of their relationship.]
no subject
[She makes herself send him the address, though her shoulders might as well be made of tension rods.] it's number seven
[And she immediately regrets this and is burying her phone under two pillows so that she can curl up at the foot of her bed and not hear it ding again.]