[ ah! the minute she scoots back he stops, hands raised up like he's dealing with a terrified animal, expression surprised -realizing, and then dropping back into something soft, worried. sad. ]
Oh, Miss Fukawa... [ the second time now he's heard tale of something like this, but this reaction's the more heartbreaking one. rondo sets the washcloth down for a moment, each movement slow and telegraphed, keeping his voice quiet. ]
... What you witnessed - you're back now. In the Backstage, in your trailer.
[ well that explains that - but, honestly, it's not all that surprising. from what he heard from the last time he was in one of these, it was as a defender, and he can see himself slotting into a similar role anywhere. a protector, someone to take the blows for those who can't. seeing fukawa, he can put the pieces together.
fear factor challenges aren't real, not really, no matter how real they feel. logically, whatever some false version of him was doing was doomed to fail, but - well, it's hard to see her so hurt and to know he failed to stop it, one way or another. he can't let it linger, though, especially with that last question. ]
What...? [ softer, taken aback. ] No - no, I'm not dead. And I'd never - I've been here. I...
[ a beat passes, his brow furrowed; he lifts his hand again, slow, telegraphed, fingers curling in on themselves before he holds his hand out, palm up, not too far, but not too close. ]
[ his gaze flicks down when her hand comes down - breath held, as still as humanly possible, and when she touches his palm, he looks back at her, biting his lip briefly. he's really, really worked hard to earn fukawa's trust over the weeks, and maybe it's not perfect, but this feels like a huge, huge step in the right direction. like earning mikoto's, like earning the other mikoto's, something to be carefully treasured and nurtured.
she's right, that his hand's warm. like the sacred flame itself, he practically radiates it; he holds it still for a second longer, then slowly, slowly, slowly turns his hand until her fingertips can touch against his pulse at his wrist, pressing it up into the hesitancy as something bolstering. steady. th-thmp, th-thmp. the heart of the flame. ]
You can feel it, right? I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.
[She does feel it. The thump of a pulse, steady. Alive. Ought she have checked Komaru's, back then? Komaru had been cold. She'd thought nothing of it, only grateful to see her dearest and first ever friend again.
Rondo — whichever version of him this is, is here. He has to be. And he's not making strange demands of her, not pulling a knife, doing nothing but taking a cloth to her filthy face.
Her lip quivers. She pulls her hands back. Covers her face, as if that could hide the sudden glut of tears.]
[ the noise is soft, surprised - distress, worry, half reaching out after her when she pulls away. there's only a second of a hiccup, long enough for him to pat himself down for another handkerchief before he leans closer, reaching out this time to give into his instincts. it's impulse week, so with gentle, warm insistence, he pulls her into a hug. ]
It's okay - it's going to be okay, Miss Fukawa. You're safe now.
Fukawa is still in pain, her legs still not yet healed in full. But her upper half can fold into his arms gently enough, and she will mash her face into his shoulder as she sobs openly.]
[ i always say rondo gives good hugs, and it is the truth. he's steady, warm, and firm - but gentle, too. conscientious, careful not to harm her, not to pull too hard or shake any injuries. his grip is tight, fingers curling gently in the back of her clothes, the other cupping the back of her head. ]
We've all been right here, worried and waiting for you to come back. [ with a very, very gentle squeeze. ] And you're here. Everything's going to be okay.
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Oh, Miss Fukawa... [ the second time now he's heard tale of something like this, but this reaction's the more heartbreaking one. rondo sets the washcloth down for a moment, each movement slow and telegraphed, keeping his voice quiet. ]
... What you witnessed - you're back now. In the Backstage, in your trailer.
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[Her eyes flick between his. The words should make sense, but they don't. Not right now. Her breath quickens, she shakes her hand.]
Y-you're dead. I l-left you for dead. You're here to show me it again, aren't you?
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fear factor challenges aren't real, not really, no matter how real they feel. logically, whatever some false version of him was doing was doomed to fail, but - well, it's hard to see her so hurt and to know he failed to stop it, one way or another. he can't let it linger, though, especially with that last question. ]
What...? [ softer, taken aback. ] No - no, I'm not dead. And I'd never - I've been here. I...
[ a beat passes, his brow furrowed; he lifts his hand again, slow, telegraphed, fingers curling in on themselves before he holds his hand out, palm up, not too far, but not too close. ]
...Can I prove it to you?
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Eventually her own hand lifts. Hovering in the air between them, hesitant, before touching down.
He's warm. It's something. Just not enough.]
H-how? Prove it how?
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she's right, that his hand's warm. like the sacred flame itself, he practically radiates it; he holds it still for a second longer, then slowly, slowly, slowly turns his hand until her fingertips can touch against his pulse at his wrist, pressing it up into the hesitancy as something bolstering. steady. th-thmp, th-thmp. the heart of the flame. ]
You can feel it, right? I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.
no subject
Rondo — whichever version of him this is, is here. He has to be. And he's not making strange demands of her, not pulling a knife, doing nothing but taking a cloth to her filthy face.
Her lip quivers. She pulls her hands back. Covers her face, as if that could hide the sudden glut of tears.]
no subject
[ the noise is soft, surprised - distress, worry, half reaching out after her when she pulls away. there's only a second of a hiccup, long enough for him to pat himself down for another handkerchief before he leans closer, reaching out this time to give into his instincts. it's impulse week, so with gentle, warm insistence, he pulls her into a hug. ]
It's okay - it's going to be okay, Miss Fukawa. You're safe now.
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Fukawa is still in pain, her legs still not yet healed in full. But her upper half can fold into his arms gently enough, and she will mash her face into his shoulder as she sobs openly.]
Y-you're not...none of you are...
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We've all been right here, worried and waiting for you to come back. [ with a very, very gentle squeeze. ] And you're here. Everything's going to be okay.
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H-how can it be? If I'm still here? [She hiccups, burying her face in his clothes.] I'm g-going to be the death of you. I'm going to hurt you.