[ There it is, that flush, that sliver of an opening he can sink his fangs into and tear at, because when you leave scratches on people, it doesn't matter if you're a doctor: they leave, they make conclusions about you that are irreversible. It doesn't matter if Claude has healing hands because he has a tongue that's forked and ready to distance, and he sees these opportunities to hurt because he's survived them, all these passive-aggressive little thorns that they've embedded so far into his soul that he doesn't even think about pulling them out anymore.
But she smiles, and the sun catches her hair just so, and she tips her chin down and breathes with a gentleness that actually makes him... pause.
And recalibrate.
And reevaluate. ]
...Is that so.
[ His words escape him before he can stop himself, not because they're barbed, but because they're achingly earnest. He hates it. ]
I'll be looking forward to it, then. [ Ah, he's done it now. ]
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But she smiles, and the sun catches her hair just so, and she tips her chin down and breathes with a gentleness that actually makes him... pause.
And recalibrate.
And reevaluate. ]
...Is that so.
[ His words escape him before he can stop himself, not because they're barbed, but because they're achingly earnest. He hates it. ]
I'll be looking forward to it, then. [ Ah, he's done it now. ]