[For a moment, it's all Carlisle can do to remain on his feet, his own legs quaking beneath him, threatening to buckle if he even breathes. His hands are shaking as he readjusts the front of his robe, the familiarity of nervous habits helping him cope as he tries to recover from the unbridled fear still gnawing at his bones. At least terror is something he understands well, that he still experiences from time to time even as an undead. The part where it's at the hands of a friend is... unfortunately new.
His eyes affix themselves on Qubit, their illumination bright as they focus on him. The apology is warranted, but is it necessary? Carlisle can't help but think now that he might be somewhat to blame for Qubit's condition by withholding knowledge of the white room, but at the same time, such a volatile reaction was unexpected — and despite how quick he is to blame himself in most situations, even Carlisle realizes it was, perhaps, undeserved.
But where had it come from? Was that outburst the result of a mere lack of sleep? Qubit's frustration with his circumstances? His memory loss and the overbearing, obsessive drive to return to the maze? Some combination thereof? Or has Qubit's temper always been lying just beneath his surface, a terrifying beast caged only by the veneer of self-control?
As a man who so often wore that same mask in life, that's an answer Carlisle does know. Moreover, he recalls far too well the barely contained ire he saw manifesting in Qubit in the red shift. There was the manipulation rather than trust when faced with a room full of skeletons, the aggression when Carlisle wanted to address the obvious connection between Qubit and the volcanic lair. Every moment, he saw flashes of a man he didn't know as well as he'd thought.
Those are contemplations for another time, Carlisle manages to convince himself as he watches Qubit tremble in the chair, his face buried in his hands in an open, earnest expression of true regret. Much like he's not used to Qubit's wrath, Carlisle isn't accustomed to such visible remorse from him, either. He witnessed that in the red shift too, Qubit's tears more humanizing than any facade of composure. He takes a step forward, willing his legs to move.]
I know you didn't, Mister Qubit. It's—
[He pulls in a breath, trying to figure out what to say; his inhale is as shaky as the rest of him. When he finds his voice again, it's soft, timid... and sorrowful.]
I suppose that sometimes... our true nature gets the better of us, no matter how much we may fight against it.
no subject
His eyes affix themselves on Qubit, their illumination bright as they focus on him. The apology is warranted, but is it necessary? Carlisle can't help but think now that he might be somewhat to blame for Qubit's condition by withholding knowledge of the white room, but at the same time, such a volatile reaction was unexpected — and despite how quick he is to blame himself in most situations, even Carlisle realizes it was, perhaps, undeserved.
But where had it come from? Was that outburst the result of a mere lack of sleep? Qubit's frustration with his circumstances? His memory loss and the overbearing, obsessive drive to return to the maze? Some combination thereof? Or has Qubit's temper always been lying just beneath his surface, a terrifying beast caged only by the veneer of self-control?
As a man who so often wore that same mask in life, that's an answer Carlisle does know. Moreover, he recalls far too well the barely contained ire he saw manifesting in Qubit in the red shift. There was the manipulation rather than trust when faced with a room full of skeletons, the aggression when Carlisle wanted to address the obvious connection between Qubit and the volcanic lair. Every moment, he saw flashes of a man he didn't know as well as he'd thought.
Those are contemplations for another time, Carlisle manages to convince himself as he watches Qubit tremble in the chair, his face buried in his hands in an open, earnest expression of true regret. Much like he's not used to Qubit's wrath, Carlisle isn't accustomed to such visible remorse from him, either. He witnessed that in the red shift too, Qubit's tears more humanizing than any facade of composure. He takes a step forward, willing his legs to move.]
I know you didn't, Mister Qubit. It's—
[He pulls in a breath, trying to figure out what to say; his inhale is as shaky as the rest of him. When he finds his voice again, it's soft, timid... and sorrowful.]
I suppose that sometimes... our true nature gets the better of us, no matter how much we may fight against it.