[ He's reminded of that day in the tunnels, of watching her gently brush away hair from unseeing eyes, tending to the sick and the razed with little concern for herself. She's always reaching out, he thinks, even when she gets hurt for it.
So this time, he reaches back, meeting her in the middle, long palm gently enveloping hers. A squeeze, as of a heartbeat, and he means to let her go with this, but he doesn't.
He's so damn tired of letting go. ]
No, it really isn't.
[ A shrug before he downs another sip of the rum, a trace of self-loathing in the low laughter that follows the swallow. ]
But there are some people the future needs more than history does.
[ Some people he needs more than the Bookman does. ]
no subject
So this time, he reaches back, meeting her in the middle, long palm gently enveloping hers. A squeeze, as of a heartbeat, and he means to let her go with this, but he doesn't.
He's so damn tired of letting go. ]
No, it really isn't.
[ A shrug before he downs another sip of the rum, a trace of self-loathing in the low laughter that follows the swallow. ]
But there are some people the future needs more than history does.
[ Some people he needs more than the Bookman does. ]
And I think you're one of them, Kate Bishop.