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❝ human existence is so fragile a thing and exposed to such dangers that I cannot love without trembling ❞
⎯ simone weil, gravity and grace
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REINE'S BANDAGES NEED changing.
The cloth itches against her carefully sewn flesh, where the shards of glass have been pulled out to the sound of subdued shrieks, and the scabbed over cuts have broken, blood seeping through the ivory wrapping like a rose blooming in the center of a white field.
But the girl doesn't notice. Neither does the man beside her. Reine's uninjured hand is laced with his own, and Bucky keeps a firm grip on it. He sits on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, head tilted back, eyes trained on the television screen in front of them.
Reine watches too, not quite understanding what she's seeing.
There is a man, a man in a slightly familiar suit. It's red and white and blue, with gloves and a cowl he's just taken off. Below the mask is a stubble beard, blue eyes, and bright blonde hair. He has a smile that makes Reine uneasy, her stomach twisting. There's a flash behind the man's eyes, a keenness in his nasally, annoying voice. It's a look Reine knows all too well, though she can't put a finger on exactly what it means. It's a rolling of the guts, a clench of fists, a baring of teeth. An anger, rough as silk and smooth as sandpaper, brimming beneath the surface of your flesh.
Reine can see this in the man on the TV, and she doesn't like it one bit.
(Reine hates everything that reminds her of herself)
