[ margo leans over, snuggling into the crook of eliot's arm, wanting to be as close as possible. that she's in for a rough ride of a story is clear, even with that simple 'okay.' she could hear it in eliot's tone, feel it from his body language. then he confirms what she's expecting to hear, and he starts to go on.
her brows furrow hard when he starts to explain how she went on a quest, got axes, eyes flickering with anticipating delight. yeah, the story is going to be awful, but how can she not relish in that, her heart expanding several sizes just from it being her that got him out.
she slides back only to leave enough space between them to get a good look, grimacing, fingers stretching out, hand wanting to reach to touch him there. instead, she lifts one hand, running the backs of her fingers comfortingly along his jawline.
a jar. her brows furrow, frown over muggle surgery having been done on eliot, and her breath stops when he says that quentin didn't make it. the next names are barely registered, only that two of their friends are mentioned. margo reaches down, squeezes the top of his leg, fingers curling into his thigh and her tone is angry, ire splashing over her tongue. ] No. They didn't try hard enough. Someone. [ a beat, stubborn unwillingness to accept this surging up. ] They could've done more. They had to. He can't. No.
[ she swallows, eyes starting to tear up again, gaze flicking down. she started this being solely concerned about eliot, and now it's being replaced by worrying over the life and security of the one person she just can't admit could die. it's quentin coldwater, integral part of every quest worth anything.
her touch on his leg eases, hand lifting entirely and coming up, tenderly curling her palm against his cheek. her tone softens by volumes. ] That's what you had to live through, El? Not...not having him. [ her heart aches, tightens, every cord and thread of her capacity for emotional connection pulling in every direction. ] I. I'm sorry, El. I...I know how much he means to you. To all of us.
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her brows furrow hard when he starts to explain how she went on a quest, got axes, eyes flickering with anticipating delight. yeah, the story is going to be awful, but how can she not relish in that, her heart expanding several sizes just from it being her that got him out.
she slides back only to leave enough space between them to get a good look, grimacing, fingers stretching out, hand wanting to reach to touch him there. instead, she lifts one hand, running the backs of her fingers comfortingly along his jawline.
a jar. her brows furrow, frown over muggle surgery having been done on eliot, and her breath stops when he says that quentin didn't make it. the next names are barely registered, only that two of their friends are mentioned. margo reaches down, squeezes the top of his leg, fingers curling into his thigh and her tone is angry, ire splashing over her tongue. ] No. They didn't try hard enough. Someone. [ a beat, stubborn unwillingness to accept this surging up. ] They could've done more. They had to. He can't. No.
[ she swallows, eyes starting to tear up again, gaze flicking down. she started this being solely concerned about eliot, and now it's being replaced by worrying over the life and security of the one person she just can't admit could die. it's quentin coldwater, integral part of every quest worth anything.
her touch on his leg eases, hand lifting entirely and coming up, tenderly curling her palm against his cheek. her tone softens by volumes. ] That's what you had to live through, El? Not...not having him. [ her heart aches, tightens, every cord and thread of her capacity for emotional connection pulling in every direction. ] I. I'm sorry, El. I...I know how much he means to you. To all of us.