She kisses her and Kitty Valentine, who has NEVER experienced unmitigated, unbridled, brand NEW choice, has no idea what to do but kiss her back, in the way that Kitty is just-- accustomed to. In the strangely responsive, immediate, understood way. Like a reflex, something immediate, the way her body has the level of intelligence to comprehend before her brain does. It’s curious and without prompting, and it leaves her disarmed. Her eyebrows twitch.
“Uh-- yeh,” she says. One simple, embarrassingly taken aback word. Yuh. She doesn’t know what to do with this. It feels like holding something in her hands that she might crush. It feels like it’s dangerous-- she does not hold something so gentle without the expectation she will HARM it. She always harms it. She isn’t good at being gentle. (The last person she loved DIED with her claws in her throat.)
She blinks. She, who has been a soldier all her life, blinks. Again. She doesn’t know what to do. How to do it. She swallows, hard and harder, and exposes small, white teeth in a faint grin, all those-- pointy, little teeth. It’s the static feeling-- familiar discomfort of a hum in her skin, white magick, as it always affects her this way-- but it doesn’t hurt, not like it did when she was young.
She’s at a loss. Words fail her, as they always do, but moreso than usual. And there is an ache in a place she has not melt before. Humans call it a ‘heart’.
