Balthier doesn't believe that he isn't a burden, and even less that he couldn't ever be one, but he believes that in this moment she believes it. All at once he's overwhelmed with utter disbelief at her support and horrific guilt at having so thoroughly tricked her into thinking he was, he was, what? Something easy? Something good?
The thoughts don't make sense, but they're so fast and so heavy. He hasn't felt like this in years, and all that keeps rising to the surface is the terrible sense that he's failed someone who matters to him, that he was always destined to.
A single gasping sob escapes him before he buries his face in her shoulder, clinging back to her firm hold. Well. He's not coming back from this. But she doesn't pull away, just plies him with more gentle words and every indication that she wants to stay close. Unless it's just to placate him--
Gods. Can't he just turn his head off for once? Take this at face value?
"Bathe with me," he whispers, because he doesn't trust his voice any louder. "Let me touch you with tenderness, wash this off of us both." And if she still wasn't done with him after, he'd gladly hold her until the fatigue took them.
Moving back just enough to see her face, he cups it with one hand, stroking her jaw and searching her eyes, trying to sense any discomfort, any sign he ought to stop. His head is still screaming and he's having trouble tracking what he wants to say or what he thinks to risk is, but he tries to find that compass needle of honesty. "You are so precious to me," he whispers. That feels too big and too small and not the right time to say it, but it's what he has, what he needs her to know.
He breaks their hold, but only to step into the tub, hot water a constant companion on a decade or more of hard nights. He's so grateful for it, for her, and when he's settled in the water he beckons for her to join, adjusting his body to make room for her.
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The thoughts don't make sense, but they're so fast and so heavy. He hasn't felt like this in years, and all that keeps rising to the surface is the terrible sense that he's failed someone who matters to him, that he was always destined to.
A single gasping sob escapes him before he buries his face in her shoulder, clinging back to her firm hold. Well. He's not coming back from this. But she doesn't pull away, just plies him with more gentle words and every indication that she wants to stay close. Unless it's just to placate him--
Gods. Can't he just turn his head off for once? Take this at face value?
"Bathe with me," he whispers, because he doesn't trust his voice any louder. "Let me touch you with tenderness, wash this off of us both." And if she still wasn't done with him after, he'd gladly hold her until the fatigue took them.
Moving back just enough to see her face, he cups it with one hand, stroking her jaw and searching her eyes, trying to sense any discomfort, any sign he ought to stop. His head is still screaming and he's having trouble tracking what he wants to say or what he thinks to risk is, but he tries to find that compass needle of honesty. "You are so precious to me," he whispers. That feels too big and too small and not the right time to say it, but it's what he has, what he needs her to know.
He breaks their hold, but only to step into the tub, hot water a constant companion on a decade or more of hard nights. He's so grateful for it, for her, and when he's settled in the water he beckons for her to join, adjusting his body to make room for her.