She doesn't know if she can forgive him. Not yet, at least. It's still a wound that has not had enough time to mend, and every time she thinks it might, Clive reappears to yank at the edges.
"I wonder what our actions in the past month say about us," she says, and even that might not be a thing she truly wishes to know. She's been with others. She's fairly certain he has as well, and the thought almost makes her immediately feel sick to her stomach, more than any wound or amount of blood.
He's not wrong. She pauses, looking down for a moment before moving the towel to her other hand. This time, when she touches his face, it's with her bare skin. Her thumb brushes over his cheek.
"I wish I could have helped mend your heart. It's what's most special about you," she says, and she swallows around a lump in her throat. She may say they're different people now, and she does believe it, but she doesn't think his heart is lost. "What I cherished above all."
He closes her eyes at her touch, her skin on his. He reaches up to lay his hand over hers, gently, just so that he can hold her in whatever way she’ll permit.
Why did things have to turn out this way?
And then he looks to her again, unblinking. Wanting what he can’t have. Needing what’s right in front of him, and falling short anyway.
“If there was still a way to save myself,” he says, “it would be for you. I was so fortunate to have you. The strongest person I’ve ever known… the most resilient.”
She lets him touch, needing it to steady herself like he needed to steady himself against her. She wants to kiss him. She wants it more than anything, and she thinks she might just give into the pull when he speaks.
She's not strong. He pulled the rug out from under her and she collapsed and still hasn't found her footing. Her hair falls into her eyes as she shakes her head. Strong and resilient are not words that describe her right now, especially not when she goes from wanting to kiss him to wanting to cry in his arms and beg once more for him to stay with her.
Instead, she lets out a slow, measured breath.
"I would exchange myself for Joshua if only this place allowed it," she says, hand still on Clive's face, but unable to look at him. "You need him."
More than he needs her. Joshua would speak sense into him. Make him see, make him understand, in ways she cannot.
She does look at him, pained, when he mentions Joshua's death.
"Ultima killed him," she clarifies quietly, but firmly. Regardless of what exactly happened, details Clive will not share, Ultima is the one responsible. Everything is because of Ultima.
The inevitable result of the decision to try and contain him there in the first place. The mental image is enough to have Jill make a strained noise before she can stop herself, the sound from an effort not to burst into tears.
She pulls her hand away to clamp it over her mouth, fighting to keep the emotions down.
She'd argue it's still entirely Ultima's doing, but she needs a moment to keep her composure.
Tension be damned, sense be damned — he reaches for her, a large hand settling on her elbow, like he could guide her to his arms with the gesture alone.
“He spoke to me the whole time,” he says, a tremble surfacing on his voice. “Of the Hideaway, and our mission, and you. But he knew his body couldn’t survive. He gave me Phoenix.”
She could have resisted until one critical part: and you. For as much as she hoped for a life with Clive when they finished their work, she has hoped to continue to rebuild her relationship with Joshua, make up for all the years lost.
She can't squeeze her eyes tight enough to stop a tear from rolling down her cheek. Oh, but the blood--her last excuse to avoid falling into Clive, but her bloodied fingers have already gotten it on her cheek.
"You never said," is all she says, voice cracking, before allowing herself to press her face into the top of his hair, only a little mindful of his injury.
The sting of her weight against his cracked head is nothing compared to the relief of holding her, the grief of the mere thought of Joshua. He slips his arms around her, cautious, loose.
“I know,” he says, apologetic, a hand tangling in her hair, his own tears catching on his eyelashes. “He believed in your hopes for me, that I’d save myself… but he died in my arms… how could I risk your life, too, my love? How could I let you pin your hopes on someone who only brings ruin?”
The only reason she can tuck him under her chin is because he's seated. So she does, reaching her arms around his shoulders, hold more firm than his owbmn. No matter what happens between them, they both love Joshua. They both grieve him.
"Isn't that what we fought so hard for, all this time? The freedom to choose. Joshua chose his path, and so did I."
How divine, to be held by her, after the last month. He's feared it and taken it for granted, but here, he can sink into it, pressing his face against her throat.
"And I swept everyone's freedom away by failing to defeat Ultima," he says, with a breath that veers towards a sob. "Death is all that's left."
"It's not your fault, Clive. None would ever blame you but yourself," she tells him. She can feel the blood, now sticky, against her neck from where she'd failed to wipe it away from his wound, but she doesn't want to pry him off her.
"Death had not been so bad, until recently." And it has hot water on demand. Like he said. But it's a poor consolation for all that was lost, she knows.
For a moment, he just sobs — ugly, shoulder-shaking things that is hardly served by the blood loss and the exhaustion. But he has her, for at least this moment, to hang onto.
All that he’s at fault for, there is at least one thing he can do.
“Jill,” he says, soberly, tear streaked. He lifts his head away from her just to find her face, but he doesn’t get far. “Even if Valisthea is lost, I will build you a better life here, for all that you’ve done for me, and continue to do. I want to earn your faith in me again.”
She's never known anyone else to sound so terribly broken when they weep. It shatters her defenses, and she sucks back her own sob as she holds him to her, cheek on the top of his head.
When he tries to lift his face, she tucks him right back against her neck and chest. It's easier this way, when they can hold onto one another and not have to see the sorrow in their faces.
She wishes she had the trust she had in him from a month prior. He's talking nonsense, even now, so sad and pained from both his injury and his own emotions.
Words, he realizes, are fruitless; not only do they feel thick and difficult to put together, but they say nothing about his ability to follow through. Actions. He needs actions.
But right now he feels like he's got a battle axe being wedged deeper and deeper into his skull, inch by inch, moment by moment. There's a pressure behind his eyes that begins to feel intolerable, and he can't just blame the blow to the head.
"Let's get you into bed and I'll finish cleaning you up there," she tells him, needing to get some space between them before she simply decides to never let him go.
Besides, his strength is surely waning and she can't move him without his help.
She very carefully peels herself away, skin sticking to him where the blood is drying. They're both a mess. Jill only wipes at her neck with the back of her hand, not wanting to look at his face just yet.
He just nods, letting her go and immediately wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, as though he still might get away with his tears not being noticed. And then, with the efficiency of rote practice, he starts unbuckling armour.
Jill gives him some privacy so she too can wipe her eyes, quietly sniffle, and gather the towels and bowl of water to take to the bedroom. The covers are already down, ready for him, so all that's left is to grab him a cup of water from the kitchen.
She takes a long drink from the glass before topping it off and putting it on the nightstand. She's so tired. If things were different, she'd be pulling him into bed to curl up against him and sleep until things were less terrible.
But things are not different. She can only do what their situation allows.
"Do you need help?" She asks as she slowly approaches him. Undressing, standing--any of it.
wow she drinks from his glass... v. intimate... I see...
Clive has most of his gear off by time she's back, down to clothes and boots. His vest is unlaced, hanging open to reveal an Underarmour tank top with the front slashed to the navel. He's working at his boots slowly, his head spinning from leaning that far forward.
"Yes," he admits, a touch reluctantly. She's done so much.
"I'll take care of that," she says, a hand gently pushing back on his shoulder before she kneels before him.
He must feel awful if he's admitting he needs help undressing. She gets one boot off with an ease he could never manage in this state, and glances up at him as she works on the other.
She wants so desperately to hold him again, wrap her arms around his waist and bury her face into his chest. The longing feels all the worse after allowing herself to comfort him. She misses him and now... she sees that maybe he does need her, and he knows it, too.
But they still sat in this very apartment and he broke her trust and her heart without second thought. It still hurts too much to forget or forgive.
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"I wonder what our actions in the past month say about us," she says, and even that might not be a thing she truly wishes to know. She's been with others. She's fairly certain he has as well, and the thought almost makes her immediately feel sick to her stomach, more than any wound or amount of blood.
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“That we are wounded people,” he says. “And the scars on our bodies are far shallower than the scars on our hearts.”
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"I wish I could have helped mend your heart. It's what's most special about you," she says, and she swallows around a lump in her throat. She may say they're different people now, and she does believe it, but she doesn't think his heart is lost. "What I cherished above all."
Perhaps someone else will figure it out with him.
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Why did things have to turn out this way?
And then he looks to her again, unblinking. Wanting what he can’t have. Needing what’s right in front of him, and falling short anyway.
“If there was still a way to save myself,” he says, “it would be for you. I was so fortunate to have you. The strongest person I’ve ever known… the most resilient.”
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She's not strong. He pulled the rug out from under her and she collapsed and still hasn't found her footing. Her hair falls into her eyes as she shakes her head. Strong and resilient are not words that describe her right now, especially not when she goes from wanting to kiss him to wanting to cry in his arms and beg once more for him to stay with her.
Instead, she lets out a slow, measured breath.
"I would exchange myself for Joshua if only this place allowed it," she says, hand still on Clive's face, but unable to look at him. "You need him."
More than he needs her. Joshua would speak sense into him. Make him see, make him understand, in ways she cannot.
"The Phoenix would save you."
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“I do need him,” he admits. As, he’s realizing, he needs her. He searches her face, wishing she would turn it to him. “But I need you too.”
He hesitates, head throbbing. Her hand clasped under his. He couldn’t trade them. Not for any reason.
“He could not save me. He tried, but it wasn’t enough. It killed him.”
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"Ultima killed him," she clarifies quietly, but firmly. Regardless of what exactly happened, details Clive will not share, Ultima is the one responsible. Everything is because of Ultima.
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He swallows, dry and thick.
“He had locked Ultima away there to protect me… and it killed him.”
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She pulls her hand away to clamp it over her mouth, fighting to keep the emotions down.
She'd argue it's still entirely Ultima's doing, but she needs a moment to keep her composure.
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“He spoke to me the whole time,” he says, a tremble surfacing on his voice. “Of the Hideaway, and our mission, and you. But he knew his body couldn’t survive. He gave me Phoenix.”
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She can't squeeze her eyes tight enough to stop a tear from rolling down her cheek. Oh, but the blood--her last excuse to avoid falling into Clive, but her bloodied fingers have already gotten it on her cheek.
"You never said," is all she says, voice cracking, before allowing herself to press her face into the top of his hair, only a little mindful of his injury.
And now she knows. He has all of the Eikons.
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“I know,” he says, apologetic, a hand tangling in her hair, his own tears catching on his eyelashes. “He believed in your hopes for me, that I’d save myself… but he died in my arms… how could I risk your life, too, my love? How could I let you pin your hopes on someone who only brings ruin?”
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"Isn't that what we fought so hard for, all this time? The freedom to choose. Joshua chose his path, and so did I."
And then Clive chose for them.
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"And I swept everyone's freedom away by failing to defeat Ultima," he says, with a breath that veers towards a sob. "Death is all that's left."
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"Death had not been so bad, until recently." And it has hot water on demand. Like he said. But it's a poor consolation for all that was lost, she knows.
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"I'm sorry," she says, and she's not apologizing for her coldness or distance or anything she's said or done. "I'm sorry you hurt so much."
Maybe the least she can do as they learn to live apart is not add to it. She doesn't know. It's difficult when she's in pain, too.
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All that he’s at fault for, there is at least one thing he can do.
“Jill,” he says, soberly, tear streaked. He lifts his head away from her just to find her face, but he doesn’t get far. “Even if Valisthea is lost, I will build you a better life here, for all that you’ve done for me, and continue to do. I want to earn your faith in me again.”
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When he tries to lift his face, she tucks him right back against her neck and chest. It's easier this way, when they can hold onto one another and not have to see the sorrow in their faces.
She wishes she had the trust she had in him from a month prior. He's talking nonsense, even now, so sad and pained from both his injury and his own emotions.
She just shushes him and holds him.
"You need rest," she says gently.
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But right now he feels like he's got a battle axe being wedged deeper and deeper into his skull, inch by inch, moment by moment. There's a pressure behind his eyes that begins to feel intolerable, and he can't just blame the blow to the head.
"I'm exhausted," he admits, still holding her.
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Besides, his strength is surely waning and she can't move him without his help.
She very carefully peels herself away, skin sticking to him where the blood is drying. They're both a mess. Jill only wipes at her neck with the back of her hand, not wanting to look at his face just yet.
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She takes a long drink from the glass before topping it off and putting it on the nightstand. She's so tired. If things were different, she'd be pulling him into bed to curl up against him and sleep until things were less terrible.
But things are not different. She can only do what their situation allows.
"Do you need help?" She asks as she slowly approaches him. Undressing, standing--any of it.
wow she drinks from his glass... v. intimate... I see...
"Yes," he admits, a touch reluctantly. She's done so much.
💋 practically a kiss when he drinks from it
He must feel awful if he's admitting he needs help undressing. She gets one boot off with an ease he could never manage in this state, and glances up at him as she works on the other.
She wants so desperately to hold him again, wrap her arms around his waist and bury her face into his chest. The longing feels all the worse after allowing herself to comfort him. She misses him and now... she sees that maybe he does need her, and he knows it, too.
But they still sat in this very apartment and he broke her trust and her heart without second thought. It still hurts too much to forget or forgive.
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give me the other tag back this one is too sad
it lives on only in your memories now
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SAD, THANKS
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NO.............. that's so sad............
needs to bottle his sweat
basement plan now has different connotations
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that should happen lmao it would be funny
she gets spotted out with clive and then he comes home to a destroyed couch
flawless plans
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