Diego heads for the living room, Allison pulls her along and Vanya can't stop her eyes from wandering to the door. She wants to be here, at least in some small way, and she wants answers about why the fuck she's getting brain texts and what's up with this place and how long they've been here and at least a dozen more.
But she'd also like to be anywhere, anywhere but here, facing their questions and feeling like she's about to choke on her own tongue.
Ultimately, Vanya follows, lets Allison pull her into the living room where Diego settles into a chair. She doesn't know where to sit, instinctively afraid she'll do or say the wrong thing. You don't have to apologize for existing, and she has to grit her teeth together to prevent angry tears from falling. That wasn't fair, either.
Diego's words sting - everything stings, it's like fire ants are crawling under her skin - but Vanya huddles in on herself, her body language so different from when she put this suit on. Nothing could touch her as she left her apartment, she remembers that much clearly: one last look at the life of solitude and loneliness she'd created for herself. One look and then she'd close the door on it forever. Nothing had really mattered to her, then, and so nothing could really hurt her: not the fact that no one would show up, not the fact that she'd never go back to that apartment. Only the concert, and the fact that she could do, go, be anything.
And the promise of feeling even the faintest blush of that again is almost worth giving into. It's Diego that grounds her, this time: one look at his face, and the skin-and-bones memory makes her perch on the edge of a sofa, tails caught under her, pulling the collar of her jacket back and down. She should have changed, should have begged a change of clothes, something. Instead, she's blinking as text appears in her vision again.
"Known what?" Her voice is small, verging on hollow: she's dreading questions and answers alike.
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But she'd also like to be anywhere, anywhere but here, facing their questions and feeling like she's about to choke on her own tongue.
Ultimately, Vanya follows, lets Allison pull her into the living room where Diego settles into a chair. She doesn't know where to sit, instinctively afraid she'll do or say the wrong thing. You don't have to apologize for existing, and she has to grit her teeth together to prevent angry tears from falling. That wasn't fair, either.
Diego's words sting - everything stings, it's like fire ants are crawling under her skin - but Vanya huddles in on herself, her body language so different from when she put this suit on. Nothing could touch her as she left her apartment, she remembers that much clearly: one last look at the life of solitude and loneliness she'd created for herself. One look and then she'd close the door on it forever. Nothing had really mattered to her, then, and so nothing could really hurt her: not the fact that no one would show up, not the fact that she'd never go back to that apartment. Only the concert, and the fact that she could do, go, be anything.
And the promise of feeling even the faintest blush of that again is almost worth giving into. It's Diego that grounds her, this time: one look at his face, and the skin-and-bones memory makes her perch on the edge of a sofa, tails caught under her, pulling the collar of her jacket back and down. She should have changed, should have begged a change of clothes, something. Instead, she's blinking as text appears in her vision again.
"Known what?" Her voice is small, verging on hollow: she's dreading questions and answers alike.