She's never given Caboose the credit he deserves. She's yelled at him, disregarded him, thought of him as a liability during her hound's chase to find the Director. He was a means to an end. They all were— every stupid Red and worthless Blue that'd somehow come under Agent Washington's leadership.
They disliked her, but they followed along. Climbed into Pelicans and onto bikes in her quest for revenge. They put up with her secrecy, her paranoia, her acerbity and for no other reason than by Washington's request.
And she trampled all over him. All of them. Caboose might not remember it but she does. And here he is, comforting her again.
She doesn't deserve him as a friend.
And as if to exemplify this, Carolina has to bite back the urge to chide him for his continued mourning— you can't be sad forever, you have to move on, this isn't healthy, isn't productive, Church is gone— knowing damn well she's projecting. Words she'd like to say to herself but can't stomach doing so. You should be ashamed of yourself.
The fire crackles, pops. Carolina stretches a hand toward it. Laughs inwardly at the idea of rest. She hasn't rested a day in her life. Not during childhood dance recitals, not during school, not on the battle field and not for a second during Project Freelancer. Rest turns ambition into liquid. Rest dulls the senses and makes skill go curdled and sour. A day spent resting is a part of herself lost to the void.
Maybe she could try resting. Turn her brain off, just this once.
Carolina wants him to feel safe, too. Protected where they sit in their ramshackle comfort, knowing that if any danger should suddenly spring out from between the trees, she'll destroy it utterly.
She lets her eyes close. Her breathing steadies. Fingers loose in his hair. "You should rest too. You need it." Like how all people need it. All, it seems, except for herself. She's trying, this time. "If bad people come, we'll take care of it together."
no subject
She's never given Caboose the credit he deserves. She's yelled at him, disregarded him, thought of him as a liability during her hound's chase to find the Director. He was a means to an end. They all were— every stupid Red and worthless Blue that'd somehow come under Agent Washington's leadership.
They disliked her, but they followed along. Climbed into Pelicans and onto bikes in her quest for revenge. They put up with her secrecy, her paranoia, her acerbity and for no other reason than by Washington's request.
And she trampled all over him. All of them. Caboose might not remember it but she does. And here he is, comforting her again.
She doesn't deserve him as a friend.
And as if to exemplify this, Carolina has to bite back the urge to chide him for his continued mourning— you can't be sad forever, you have to move on, this isn't healthy, isn't productive, Church is gone— knowing damn well she's projecting. Words she'd like to say to herself but can't stomach doing so. You should be ashamed of yourself.
The fire crackles, pops. Carolina stretches a hand toward it. Laughs inwardly at the idea of rest. She hasn't rested a day in her life. Not during childhood dance recitals, not during school, not on the battle field and not for a second during Project Freelancer. Rest turns ambition into liquid. Rest dulls the senses and makes skill go curdled and sour. A day spent resting is a part of herself lost to the void.
Maybe she could try resting. Turn her brain off, just this once.
Carolina wants him to feel safe, too. Protected where they sit in their ramshackle comfort, knowing that if any danger should suddenly spring out from between the trees, she'll destroy it utterly.
She lets her eyes close. Her breathing steadies. Fingers loose in his hair. "You should rest too. You need it." Like how all people need it. All, it seems, except for herself. She's trying, this time. "If bad people come, we'll take care of it together."