[The time between his last set of texts and her next one...honestly doesn't surprise him at all. If she responded quicker, he'd only know the extent of her anger more immediately. But Vanya had never been volatile like that, in any of Diego's memories. He was plenty explosive, Allison certainly had her moments with it too-- and lord help anyone who hit the right set of buttons to make Luther get that mad (Diego tried his hardest, most days).
But Vanya? Would never hurt a fly, Vanya? Cried at the boys burning ants with magnifying glasses, Vanya? Her anger was not explosive, it was quiet and simmering, and by all arguable counts, maybe that was so much more dangerous than instantaneous, in-your-face anger.
But still. The lack of response doesn't surprise him, and after the fifth or sixth time checking his phone to make sure he hadn't missed it, has him thinking maybe she just stopped altogether.
Which, of course, means that's the exact moment she does respond. Phone still in his hand, her messages still open, even, he watches it filter in and feels everything sink at that question. Reasonable enough, all things considered, but still... it just makes him feel worse.]
He said he's going to try to come by tomorrow.
I'm I'm sor I'm sorry
[He tries, and fails, to send anything shaped even a little like an apology. The way his half-attempts at it feel like the text-based version of a stutter twists in his gut with a gnawing sense of familiarity he doesn't like.
But picturing the words in his mind doesn't make them any easier to type, or send, or say, this time.]
[That response comes immediately, and since it's just a text there's no telling what her tone might be. Maybe she's serious. Maybe she's spitting vitriol at him as best she knows how.
Maybe she is just being as petty as she has the strength to be right now, knowing that she must have hurt people, hurt her family, herself, that she deserves the world's vitriol rather than spewing any of her own.
She feels like she should be punished, and she feels justified, and she hates the way the two eat her stomach up inside. Vanya sets the phone down on the floor, and curls up in her bed, back to the device, facing the wall because at least that feels safe. Can someone be claustrophobic and long for a silent enclosed place where no one can see her at the same time?
[Thanks for the heads up. There are a hundred different ways to read that. He's hears it, in his head, every time he re-reads it in a different tone. Neutral. Genuine. Sniping. He doesn't know her intention behind those words. He wonders, briefly, if she knows herself.]
Can I come see you Friday?
[At least giving her the option to refuse. It's the least he could do, he thinks.]
[She doesn't see it for a long time, falls asleep for an hour or two and wakes up still agitated. It's like a colony of ants has made its home in her gut and her chest, and they march back and forth all the time, even while she sleeps. It does a number on her sensation of peace.
She she reads his text, she responds automatically, giving him the most noncommittal, far from enthused but not rude response she can think of.]
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no subject
But Vanya?
Would never hurt a fly, Vanya? Cried at the boys burning ants with magnifying glasses, Vanya?
Her anger was not explosive, it was quiet and simmering, and by all arguable counts, maybe that was so much more dangerous than instantaneous, in-your-face anger.
But still.
The lack of response doesn't surprise him, and after the fifth or sixth time checking his phone to make sure he hadn't missed it, has him thinking maybe she just stopped altogether.
Which, of course, means that's the exact moment she does respond. Phone still in his hand, her messages still open, even, he watches it filter in and feels everything sink at that question. Reasonable enough, all things considered, but still... it just makes him feel worse.]
He said he's going to try to come by tomorrow.
I'mI'm sor
I'm sorry
[He tries, and fails, to send anything shaped even a little like an apology. The way his half-attempts at it feel like the text-based version of a stutter twists in his gut with a gnawing sense of familiarity he doesn't like.
But picturing the words in his mind doesn't make them any easier to type, or send, or say, this time.]
no subject
[That response comes immediately, and since it's just a text there's no telling what her tone might be. Maybe she's serious. Maybe she's spitting vitriol at him as best she knows how.
Maybe she is just being as petty as she has the strength to be right now, knowing that she must have hurt people, hurt her family, herself, that she deserves the world's vitriol rather than spewing any of her own.
She feels like she should be punished, and she feels justified, and she hates the way the two eat her stomach up inside. Vanya sets the phone down on the floor, and curls up in her bed, back to the device, facing the wall because at least that feels safe. Can someone be claustrophobic and long for a silent enclosed place where no one can see her at the same time?
who cares; when has she ever made sense?
no subject
There are a hundred different ways to read that. He's hears it, in his head, every time he re-reads it in a different tone. Neutral. Genuine. Sniping. He doesn't know her intention behind those words. He wonders, briefly, if she knows herself.]
Can I come see you Friday?
[At least giving her the option to refuse. It's the least he could do, he thinks.]
no subject
She she reads his text, she responds automatically, giving him the most noncommittal, far from enthused but not rude response she can think of.]
fine