You once did ask me what I needed, but admittedly, it may have been a question born of desperation rather than concern. We were both out of our element, drawn into a red shift, and it was made clear that for all your quick thinking, even you hadn't all the answers. You snapped at me in a way I hadn't seen before, and it was evident that with my tenuous grasp on my energies, I was more a danger to you than anything else. You would have preferred me to remain quiet while you thought of a solution to our predicament rather than allowing me the agency to choose for myself.
[So much had come to the light that day in the shift, but they still hadn't bothered to address it all after the fact. Qubit hadn't even wanted to talk about the painting, the place, the skeletons and the person who'd brought them there — he'd only done so when it was evident he couldn't get away without acknowledging his connection to them, and perhaps even then, it was only because he felt he owed Carlisle an explanation of some sort. As for the clergyman himself, he hadn't pressed further after that. He didn't feel he had the right to, as Qubit had never done so regarding Carlisle's frustration with his own undead state. When it came to their individual quandaries, they'd touch on them, and then move onto the next problem, not delving any further than surface level at any given time. They would never talk about the deep-seated roots of said issues after the moment had passed — not like this. It wasn't the immediate dilemma, and if it didn't threaten Anchor at large, it didn't matter if they put it off, did it?
One would think after a lifetime of that exact practice — of burying his insecurities, hiding them behind a mask for the sake of his lineage, letting them fester in his heart until they poisoned him even beyond death — Carlisle would know better.]
You didn't trust me that day, and I cannot say I blame you for that. Even now, I wonder why it was you agreed to help me with a magical problem so beyond your scope. Magic was unquantifiable, unverifiable, frustrating for you, and yet you insisted you could and would help me. I was grateful, but I never thought to ask you why you felt you could. Maybe you saw me as a challenge. Maybe you saw me as a problem needing to be fixed for the good of everyone else rather than an individual. I think that's how I've been seeing myself for far too long.
[Perhaps they are both insecure, worried what the other would think, only allowing themselves that honest expression when they've lost their composure. Maybe they haven't wanted to face the truth themselves: that they don't like seeing their own weaknesses laid bare. Qubit is — was — better at hiding his, whether it's because he's better practiced or not constantly at odds with an undead nature that colors his perception of everything around him. How much of the Qubit he used to be was the mask, and how much did Carlisle really know about him?
With whatever experiences that so tempered his pride lost to him, Qubit has now had to ask for help. He's vulnerable, and Carlisle cares too much for the man — his friend — to simply let him be. Ignoring their own problems and focusing on others has done little to help either of them. They may not be able to help anyone until they help themselves.]
no subject
You once did ask me what I needed, but admittedly, it may have been a question born of desperation rather than concern. We were both out of our element, drawn into a red shift, and it was made clear that for all your quick thinking, even you hadn't all the answers. You snapped at me in a way I hadn't seen before, and it was evident that with my tenuous grasp on my energies, I was more a danger to you than anything else. You would have preferred me to remain quiet while you thought of a solution to our predicament rather than allowing me the agency to choose for myself.
[So much had come to the light that day in the shift, but they still hadn't bothered to address it all after the fact. Qubit hadn't even wanted to talk about the painting, the place, the skeletons and the person who'd brought them there — he'd only done so when it was evident he couldn't get away without acknowledging his connection to them, and perhaps even then, it was only because he felt he owed Carlisle an explanation of some sort. As for the clergyman himself, he hadn't pressed further after that. He didn't feel he had the right to, as Qubit had never done so regarding Carlisle's frustration with his own undead state. When it came to their individual quandaries, they'd touch on them, and then move onto the next problem, not delving any further than surface level at any given time. They would never talk about the deep-seated roots of said issues after the moment had passed — not like this. It wasn't the immediate dilemma, and if it didn't threaten Anchor at large, it didn't matter if they put it off, did it?
One would think after a lifetime of that exact practice — of burying his insecurities, hiding them behind a mask for the sake of his lineage, letting them fester in his heart until they poisoned him even beyond death — Carlisle would know better.]
You didn't trust me that day, and I cannot say I blame you for that. Even now, I wonder why it was you agreed to help me with a magical problem so beyond your scope. Magic was unquantifiable, unverifiable, frustrating for you, and yet you insisted you could and would help me. I was grateful, but I never thought to ask you why you felt you could. Maybe you saw me as a challenge. Maybe you saw me as a problem needing to be fixed for the good of everyone else rather than an individual. I think that's how I've been seeing myself for far too long.
[Perhaps they are both insecure, worried what the other would think, only allowing themselves that honest expression when they've lost their composure. Maybe they haven't wanted to face the truth themselves: that they don't like seeing their own weaknesses laid bare. Qubit is — was — better at hiding his, whether it's because he's better practiced or not constantly at odds with an undead nature that colors his perception of everything around him. How much of the Qubit he used to be was the mask, and how much did Carlisle really know about him?
With whatever experiences that so tempered his pride lost to him, Qubit has now had to ask for help. He's vulnerable, and Carlisle cares too much for the man — his friend — to simply let him be. Ignoring their own problems and focusing on others has done little to help either of them. They may not be able to help anyone until they help themselves.]