so many wars we fought, so many things we're not

[tobeclosetohim]

Who: Jo Harvelle & You
Where: Cadens, Libertas, Nocwich, Hunting, Horizon
When: November
What: Event-Follow-ups & Nov Things
Warnings: Drinking, swearing, war, death, destruction; will add as needed






But with what we have,
I promise you that,
We're marchin' on
We're marchin' on
We're marchin' on

~*~

Comments

[tobeclosetohim]

Jo is moving. A start is enough to have a direction, and that direction will come after she finds Dean Winchester and decides whether to punch him in his stupid face first. But it's a plan or the edge of one. To watch and to do some research. Which seems to be all he needed her to be here to hear about and agree to.

The wait is surprised, and her brow knits. Uncertainty at war with the inconvenience of the unknown, but it might just be that she moved too soon, and there was something more he decided she needed to know. And, god knows, he might be the only one to tell her even if she punched Dean.

The words that he says fall strangely between them. It shifts her weight onto her heels. Snags her skin and shifts it just slightly the wrong way across her bones. She can't even say an apology would be the last thing she expected because an apology wasn't in the realm of the most or least expected. It's just. Weird. Unexpected.

A thing she doesn't know how to weigh against his expression.



Her mouth presses.


"It's like Ciri said. Everyone was a bit fucked up by all of that."
It's not her own apology; but it's not a direct lack of acceptance, either.
She's spent a goddamn awful amount of energy trying not to think about that day.

[gynvael]

He's studying her, though he isn't searching for any particular reaction. His face is difficult to read—not blank, but not open, either. Sincerity is not quite the right word. A certain frankness, more.

When she answers, he nods. He doesn't need reciprocation; her apology is her own to make, if she chooses. He only wants his laid out there, for her to take as she will, and now it is.

She's not wrong. They were fucked up that day. That entire damn week or two. But he was still himself, still making his decisions with full awareness. It doesn't feel right to pin the blame, even partially, on unseen forces.

He sits back in his seat, a signal that he hasn't more to add. He's said all he wanted to say. With any luck—Dean is correct that they'll have some time to work this out.

"If something arises, I'll contact you."

[tobeclosetohim]

And that's that, isn't it? Short and sweet. She'd hoped as much, hadn't she?
Except she could never have been prepared for what he'd had to say.

Jo didn't know if she felt like she should say more. He wasn't wrong that she was out of line, and she hadn't been wrong; she told him she had nothing to go on to jump to different conclusions. Even knowing she was wrong, there was more of a strange wave of annoyance at the fact she was still thinking about it, whether it was heartless not to feel guilty about just that when she knew she wasn't going to reciprocate.

Not that he seemed to need it. He sat down, returning to his drink and facing the bar. Saying those few words, and how strange is it that she thinks that I'm sorry isn't right and thank you for telling me is not something she wants to set free—still reeks too much of admitting to needing charity to just be in the loop—and she ends up at only:

"Same."

Before she turns away and heads for the door,
already typing three words in the air.