Sam is swiftly losing words. It’s not exactly uncommon: reduced to noises when things get overwhelming.
She grabs onto his arms as they wrap around her, instinctively pulling him closer, wrapping herself in him for the comfort, a short whimper humming in the air. He doesn’t have to make her do this. He can take it back, can’t he? If he claims to care so much, he could just not have her do it to begin with.
She should be mad, or grit her teeth and get it over with, or something, but it’s so hard to be a fighter around him, when he welcomes softness. So much easier to stop pretending. All the time having to be so disaffected and stubborn, and any gentle touch he gives her just pulls the truth out. She hates it so much, but it feels so nice when he’s soft.
Red burns at her cheeks, her ears, her neck, as Jed settles her in his lap. It’s embarrassing. She feels stupid and incompetent and humiliated, but she’d rather have him helping her than watching and judging.
Watching him move her hand to the table, she shifts uneasily, hooking a foot back around his calf, holding on. Her eyes close briefly as he starts speaking into her ear, shivering at the intimacy as much as the chilling promises he makes. It shouldn’t affect her the way it does, it’s not fair, it shouldn’t feel so comforting to be told they’ll do it together; shouldn’t be so validating to hear she can be brave. She can’t even be annoyed with baby, not when there’s much more pressing issues at hand.
Another pathetic whine squeezes from her throat as he puts her hand on the knife, and--
She’s not sure exactly why he lets go. She’s not sure what to do with her hands, either, once he’s not directing them. She lets the knife hang limply from her fingers, but she doesn’t move the target hand away, either. And when she realizes why he let go, another rush of shame goes through her. Because she’s excited. Her heart practically leapt when she realized he was taking off the gloves, that he’d be touching her skin to skin. What the fuck is wrong with her, that this is enough to give her butterflies?
She chews on her lips, humming anxiously, almost silently, her body shaking. Why did these things have to go together? She’d gotten just comfort from him before, without the pain (though… though it did usually… feel more poignant… if it came with pain).
His hand stops hers from shaking. When she hooks her other foot around his other calf, clinging on, steadying herself, the rest of her shakes a little less, too. Still terrified. But steady.
She hates him. She hates him so goddamn much, she does, she has to keep believing that.
She shifts in his lap again. Her fingers twitch under his hold and one slips out to wrap over his, putting his skin against the handle of the knife as well. It’s… reassuring? Somehow? The sheer amount of contact, maybe, or having someone else hold the weapon, in whatever small way.
Just do it. Just put the knife on her hand, just press it into muscle, just ignore the pain. Simple.
When she lifts the weapon, she can tell she’s the one in control, which doesn’t feel amazing, but… well. It lets her stall, at least. Fear is gnawing at the back of her neck as she brings the knife to the back of her right hand. Just… give her a second. She touches the point of it to her skin. Not piercing. Just… recognizing it. Coming to terms with it. She moves it slightly, pretends it’s just play, just the kind of play that feels nice, just some focused sensation--
She hardly recognizes the tightening of his fingers around hers before there’s a wrenching pain through her palm. If he weren’t firmly holding her wrist in place, she would’ve tried to pull her hand back, but instead she just screams, doubling over in his lap with a wailing sob.
