hide my head, I want to drown my sorrow
Dec. 31st, 2017 12:21 amIt's not the first time Veronica Lodge has made an exit to the sounds of a jeering crowd, but this time, she hardly cares. It's that soft familiar piano and Archie's sweet voice that resound in her head now as she exits the Whyte Wyrm, hurrying out into the night.
He's mere steps behind her, and then he's right on her heels, long legs catching up in short order. "Ronnie, what I said," he says quickly, "it doesn't matter if you don't want to say it back to me."
"But it does," she replies, as much instinct as fact, words tumbling out without thought. She wishes it could stay that way. Maybe then she could say it back to him the way he wants. Maybe then she wouldn't be so certain that's exactly what he's wishing for, too. She stops, facing him. The car is so close. Part of her wants nothing more than to climb inside and have Andre take her home, no more words, no more explanations, but she can't do that to Archie. "And it should. And... for whatever messed up reason, Archie, whatever deep-seated issues I have, I can't let myself go there with you."
For a few moments, she just looks at him, willing him to understand, to see what she's saying. He wants it so badly and she can't blame him for that. God, isn't that all anyone really wants, deep down, just to be loved? And she can't give him that. Not the way he's asking her to, not with words.
"I'm sorry," she says into his silence, reaching up to touch his neck, his jaw, gentle, uncertain, longing. She wants to kiss him again, to sink into it and feel his arms close around her, like everything's going to be alright. That's how it always feels with him, safe and warm in the arms of her knight in perpetually scuffed armor. But she can't. She can't kiss him if she can't give him what he wants. It wouldn't be fair to either of them. And staying in this relationship when he's only going to resent her inability to say it wouldn't be fair to her.
"I'm so sorry," she says again, drawing back. He hands her her cape. She sinks her fingers into it hard, as if clutching the soft fabric might keep her from crying. She can feel it in her throat and behind her eyes, rising up. If she says one more word to him, they'll spill over, and then he'll give in and hold her, because Archie is good and kind, and he wouldn't let her cry without trying to comfort her. She can't ask him for that.
They deserve more.
She turns and flees into the dark of the towncar, sliding away from the window into the shadows. "Home, Andre," she says, clipped. She takes a deep breath.
"Yes, Miss Veronica," Andre answers, but she barely hears. They're hardly out onto the road when the tears come.
She loses the next several minutes to that, stifling her sobs into her hands. Andre is good at his job; he's given her no cause to think that he'll say anything to make her uncomfortable. He just leaves her to it, but still she feels she can't quite let herself go, not entirely. It still feels like making a scene, if only for an audience of one, and anyway, he's bound to tell her father as it is.
As soon as the car stops, she lets herself out, not wanting to allow him to see her like this. "Thank you, Andre," she says, strained but determined. She won't let her grief keep her from her manners.
It's only the sight of the building that shakes her from her stupor. "This isn't the Pembroke," she says, turning around. "Andre —"
But he's gone, and the car with him. Instead, there's a street she doesn't recognize. Slowly, Veronica turns in place, taking in her new surroundings. He must have dropped her off in a part of town she doesn't know, but she can't imagine why. Not that the why matters; her father will have his head for this either way. It hardly seems to affect her night as it is. She's stranded, alone, feeling inconsolably abandoned. Why not make it real and physical, too?
Taking a few tottering steps forward, she slumps down on the steps of the building before her, pulling her cape around her bare shoulders, and starting to cry again. She should call for a car. She should call home. It isn't safe to be alone at night, especially not with the Black Hood on the loose, but right now, she just doesn't care. She's alone, and she feels it, bone-deep, in a way she hasn't in a long time.
He's mere steps behind her, and then he's right on her heels, long legs catching up in short order. "Ronnie, what I said," he says quickly, "it doesn't matter if you don't want to say it back to me."
"But it does," she replies, as much instinct as fact, words tumbling out without thought. She wishes it could stay that way. Maybe then she could say it back to him the way he wants. Maybe then she wouldn't be so certain that's exactly what he's wishing for, too. She stops, facing him. The car is so close. Part of her wants nothing more than to climb inside and have Andre take her home, no more words, no more explanations, but she can't do that to Archie. "And it should. And... for whatever messed up reason, Archie, whatever deep-seated issues I have, I can't let myself go there with you."
For a few moments, she just looks at him, willing him to understand, to see what she's saying. He wants it so badly and she can't blame him for that. God, isn't that all anyone really wants, deep down, just to be loved? And she can't give him that. Not the way he's asking her to, not with words.
"I'm sorry," she says into his silence, reaching up to touch his neck, his jaw, gentle, uncertain, longing. She wants to kiss him again, to sink into it and feel his arms close around her, like everything's going to be alright. That's how it always feels with him, safe and warm in the arms of her knight in perpetually scuffed armor. But she can't. She can't kiss him if she can't give him what he wants. It wouldn't be fair to either of them. And staying in this relationship when he's only going to resent her inability to say it wouldn't be fair to her.
"I'm so sorry," she says again, drawing back. He hands her her cape. She sinks her fingers into it hard, as if clutching the soft fabric might keep her from crying. She can feel it in her throat and behind her eyes, rising up. If she says one more word to him, they'll spill over, and then he'll give in and hold her, because Archie is good and kind, and he wouldn't let her cry without trying to comfort her. She can't ask him for that.
They deserve more.
She turns and flees into the dark of the towncar, sliding away from the window into the shadows. "Home, Andre," she says, clipped. She takes a deep breath.
"Yes, Miss Veronica," Andre answers, but she barely hears. They're hardly out onto the road when the tears come.
She loses the next several minutes to that, stifling her sobs into her hands. Andre is good at his job; he's given her no cause to think that he'll say anything to make her uncomfortable. He just leaves her to it, but still she feels she can't quite let herself go, not entirely. It still feels like making a scene, if only for an audience of one, and anyway, he's bound to tell her father as it is.
As soon as the car stops, she lets herself out, not wanting to allow him to see her like this. "Thank you, Andre," she says, strained but determined. She won't let her grief keep her from her manners.
It's only the sight of the building that shakes her from her stupor. "This isn't the Pembroke," she says, turning around. "Andre —"
But he's gone, and the car with him. Instead, there's a street she doesn't recognize. Slowly, Veronica turns in place, taking in her new surroundings. He must have dropped her off in a part of town she doesn't know, but she can't imagine why. Not that the why matters; her father will have his head for this either way. It hardly seems to affect her night as it is. She's stranded, alone, feeling inconsolably abandoned. Why not make it real and physical, too?
Taking a few tottering steps forward, she slumps down on the steps of the building before her, pulling her cape around her bare shoulders, and starting to cry again. She should call for a car. She should call home. It isn't safe to be alone at night, especially not with the Black Hood on the loose, but right now, she just doesn't care. She's alone, and she feels it, bone-deep, in a way she hasn't in a long time.
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