[That’s a fairly apt observation. Regret picked up this form on the cusp of its death. Perhaps it was even dead for a single second or two. And dead tissue is much harder to heal than living tissue. Wounds set in. Wounds last. He has had multiple bullet wounds in thsi form and it shows. Unique scars that aren’t on any other form of his. Isolde’s going to see them sometime, even if he’s still slightly uncomfortable with wearing this form around the House especially. He isn’t sure how he’s going to explain it.
He doesn’t even like the explanation that he gives. He leaves out the parts about death. He makes it sound like he simply picked up this body in its last moments, not its final moments. And there is a difference.
Regret does believe that the closeness helps him. Having her near comforts him a little. It makes it a little easier for him to say exactly what he has to instead of lying.]
It’s not a particularly good war story. Not that there really are such things.
[Any war story that is good, any war story that has a moral - is also a lie. War is never particularly good or bad, not heroic or brutal. It simply is. This form simply is, with its flaws and its advantages and disadvantages. Its history and its disuse.
Regret’s smile is struggling at her question.]
In a way, yes. There were a lot of things to fix. It was harder than usual.
[Oh, God. He’s let a sort of side detail slip.]
( And she'll treat those scars the same way she treats all of his scars. Carefully, lovingly. By now, she was pretty used how marred her husband's flesh was. Whether it was his knuckles or his chest, or the collection of tissue over his lung; Isolde had learned to take it all in stride. Backing away from him and being disgusted by it was not what he needed, and it would have been quite hypocritical of her. After the years he had spent kissing along the exposure of her spinal cord and ensuring her that the scars across her stomach were as beautiful as she was; she couldn't do that to him.
But there's something rigid. Something missing in the air between them even though they're pressed together. Something that he's -- not saying. It tugs at Isolde's ribcage and began gnawing at the very pit of her stomach. She does her very best to not be hurt, to not be angry that he's leaving bits of his story out. Because this wasn't about her. And Regret has never -- flat out lied to her, so to speak. He's never been dishonest. He shares things with her when he's ready, and he's honored that.
Tension is beginning in her jaw, making the bed of her tongue feel heavy and taste bitter. Her thumb continues its path over his jaw, brushing continuously before stopping. She shifts her hands to rest against his abdomen, pressing her palms there. )
I'm -- so sorry. I can't imagine how. Difficult that must have been for you.
( There's a weight on her chest. It presses until she allowed herself to subtly inhale through her nose. She'll ignore that dull ache for now (most likely allow it to eat at her later on, but that was besides the point). It was incredibly hard when she could feel it; feel that he wasn't telling her everything. )
What is it, darling? What's wrong?
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