[attr="class","illie i]grasping at sand must feel like this, must feel like knowing that everything is slipping through your fingers despite the desperation in your movements. her hand is scrambling to find his, to feel his fingers lace with hers. and yet, she comes back with nothing but that same distance between them from earlier. only this time... it's wider.

"i -- i don't want to be right," she whispers and for the most part, it's truthful. she didn't want to be right, not about this. she wanted justice to prevail, to work and lock criminals up to never harm another living soul again. and instead, she's met with the acute notion that she's ruining something. ruining him, she decides. staining him. it hurts more than she could have imagined.

his shoulders slump, his eyes falling to blood stains on concrete. he avoids her eyes, avoids her, and she's whimpering from something more than just a simple stab wound. "hey," she whispers, ignoring the way her side erupts into searing and bringing her hand up to his face. the movement brings white hot pain but it's nothing anymore. not when he won't even look at her. she winces at the way sticky fingers press to clean skin, leaving soft red fingerprints against his cheek. and yet, she doesn't pull away. instead, she shifts her hand, tries to drag his attention to her. "it's okay." there's a pause, a swallow, and then her voice returns. "i promise, alex. it's okay."

[attr="class","illie i]fingers encase hers and she wants to let out a soft sigh, a relieved breath of air. instead, she's held by his eyes and all but rooted into place. and then, their hands are drifting away from his cheek and she wants to wince at how red stains his skin with soft streaks. it looks off, out of place, unnatural. like his heart shouldn't even exist within the same realm as this. unfortunately, it does and she can't change this outcome.

"alex-" she tries to protest, tries to argue, but her breath hitches as he brings her hand back. she expects him to let go, to place that distance back between them, the same one she had placed not too long ago. and with this concept comes the intense bubbling of panic rushing to the surface. his grip tightens and while she understands the point, she returns the grip with a desperate one of her own. "hey," she murmurs once more. this time, anxiety and fear and distress show in her movements, in her fingertips, in her eyes. a swallow follows when his gaze drops to the wound, to the stained and ripped fabric of her shirt. "look at me." it isn't firm enough, doesn't have enough emotion to convey what she needs. and so she tries again, nails digging into his hand subconsciously. "please."

sirens echo in the distance, bringing more truth to his words but she doesn't bother to allow her attention to stray. instead she tries to shift closer, tries to power through on sheer will and love alone. a hiss follows and she's forced to take a moment to collect herself and school her features into something that doesn't look as pained as she thinks it does. and as sweat begins to bead onto her forehead, she's gently tugging at his hand as if that can draw him in and hold him there. "i'm sorry," she murmurs. for what, she doesn't disclose. there's a lot to be sorry for but perhaps most of all, she's sorry for putting him in this position, for ruining him with the weight of protecting her.

[attr="class","illie i]not her fault... somehow, it's both truthful and false in one sentence. her fault that he was pushed to extremes, that he had acted with only one clear objective in mind. her fault that she couldn't defend herself, couldn't even protect her own ass from being on the chopping block. and yet, she had no part in the decisions of the man now lifeless on concrete. he acted of his own volition, his own thoughts and goals swirling in his mind and propelling ideas into actions, muscles into movement. it leaves a metallic taste in her mouth and she tries to swallow it back. instead, hints of copper grow until all she can taste is pennies and it's sickening.

"but," she whispers and her fingers continue to clasp too tightly at his own. her eyes never leave his as if he's a lifeline keeping her rooted in the realm of reality. "it is." and she doesn't get the chance to provide examples, to point out her own inaction and insecurities that turned into circumstances and then concrete outcomes. sirens drown out any arguments on the tip of her tongue and all she can do is simply wait. bits of her shirt are sticky by now, fabric clinging to sliced skin without hesitation. it's funny... even with all the experience of such a thing, the wounds left behind by a knife are always nothing more than white hot reminders of failures etched into skin.

even as the paramedics arrive, she doesn't tear her attention away from him. "i would," the quickness of the answer, the firmness of it solidify the thought in her mind. "for you, i always would." and while good intentions are laced between sinews of muscles and nerves and veins, there is not a single doubt in her mind that she'd willingly set the world on fire just to keep him warm.