[ He doesn't know what reaction he's expecting from her. For her to understand, probably. Doesn't mean she has to back away from him, be afraid of him; any of that. He's made, maintained friendships with good people. He knows that his mere existence doesn't drive them away. It's just that he's irreparably broken.
What Amos doesn't expect is for her to protest. His gaze goes to her hand. His own hands stay still, folded in his lap. They were really only ever built for hard labour, for violence. None of the gentle movements Himeka is capable of; none of the sincere attempts to reach him she's giving.
The fact that she's seen a part of him — a part of his past — that nobody else has almost seems secondary now. He's still just. Confused. ]
Sure. Wouldn't have made sense to do anything else.
[ He pauses, searching for the words again. This is. It's hard, making someone understand what, exactly, he is. And of course she wouldn't know — when they'd first met, Amos hadn't remembered any of what made him the way he is. He'd been empty, amiable. The front he defaults to had been his entire being. And then he'd remembered who he is, and the front became just that: a front again, doing its best to hold back all of the other shit that makes him him.
He meets her eyes again. ]
It's not like I'm some kind of maniac. I don't get off on the shit I do. I just do it. I need someone to remind me not to. Otherwise, you know.
[ A half-hearted shrug. He fucks up; he hurts people; he doesn't give it a second thought. Story of his life, whenever he doesn't have an external, aftermarket conscience nearby. ]
no subject
What Amos doesn't expect is for her to protest. His gaze goes to her hand. His own hands stay still, folded in his lap. They were really only ever built for hard labour, for violence. None of the gentle movements Himeka is capable of; none of the sincere attempts to reach him she's giving.
The fact that she's seen a part of him — a part of his past — that nobody else has almost seems secondary now. He's still just. Confused. ]
Sure. Wouldn't have made sense to do anything else.
[ He pauses, searching for the words again. This is. It's hard, making someone understand what, exactly, he is. And of course she wouldn't know — when they'd first met, Amos hadn't remembered any of what made him the way he is. He'd been empty, amiable. The front he defaults to had been his entire being. And then he'd remembered who he is, and the front became just that: a front again, doing its best to hold back all of the other shit that makes him him.
He meets her eyes again. ]
It's not like I'm some kind of maniac. I don't get off on the shit I do. I just do it. I need someone to remind me not to. Otherwise, you know.
[ A half-hearted shrug. He fucks up; he hurts people; he doesn't give it a second thought. Story of his life, whenever he doesn't have an external, aftermarket conscience nearby. ]