[Closed]
Who: Priscilla (oneforthewar) and Galatea (visionblessing)
When: Friday afternoonish.
Where: Galatea's "office" in the Headquarters
Format: Paragraph? SURE WHY NOT. I actually don't mind either way.
What: Priscilla has thoughts and Galatea's a damn counselor so why not make her work for her money? What!
Warnings: ...angst, perhaps. Not sure what she'll talk about, exactly!
She wasn't sure it was a good idea to talk to Galatea. Then again, on the other hand, she wasn't sure that it was a good idea not to. She'd turned it over a few times, looked at it from a few angles... well, okay not so many angles. More like just two. And okay maybe it wasn't angles so much as some kind of vaguely crafted yes and no list, a pro and con list, something like that. Good idea? Y/N. Something like that.
But that wasn't the point. The point was this: she wasn't sure. Because yes, there were things in her head. Things she didn't want to talk about, but then again kind of did want to talk about, and didn't think she should discuss but on the other hand figured she ought to get out there. Things that clouded up her head and had been clouding up her head for so long that she no longer remembered what it was like to be clear-headed. But then again, she didn't know if talking about them would help or hurt, and she didn't know if Galatea would look at her oddly, either. Which just ran back to good idea: y/n.
(Wait, that was kind of confusing.)
Which was the point. She was confused, and maybe that was the final straw: the thing that made her tap the door, wait for an answer. The thing that made her nibble on her bottom lip and then chew the knuckle of her left thumb, and contemplate running... then again, also the thing that made her not run.
It was that uncertainty. That paralyzing confusion. Her own fear, of the things around her and herself and everything that the things around her did to, well, herself. All of those things, and then the knowledge that letting them run loose was dangerous, both personally, and to the rest of the city... not to mention that it could compromise her judgment as a leader. Of sorts.
(As a something).
That's what kept her there. So she stood, waiting, chewing that knuckle, trying to decide what to say as she watched the door for signs of movement.
When: Friday afternoonish.
Where: Galatea's "office" in the Headquarters
Format: Paragraph? SURE WHY NOT. I actually don't mind either way.
What: Priscilla has thoughts and Galatea's a damn counselor so why not make her work for her money? What!
Warnings: ...angst, perhaps. Not sure what she'll talk about, exactly!
She wasn't sure it was a good idea to talk to Galatea. Then again, on the other hand, she wasn't sure that it was a good idea not to. She'd turned it over a few times, looked at it from a few angles... well, okay not so many angles. More like just two. And okay maybe it wasn't angles so much as some kind of vaguely crafted yes and no list, a pro and con list, something like that. Good idea? Y/N. Something like that.
But that wasn't the point. The point was this: she wasn't sure. Because yes, there were things in her head. Things she didn't want to talk about, but then again kind of did want to talk about, and didn't think she should discuss but on the other hand figured she ought to get out there. Things that clouded up her head and had been clouding up her head for so long that she no longer remembered what it was like to be clear-headed. But then again, she didn't know if talking about them would help or hurt, and she didn't know if Galatea would look at her oddly, either. Which just ran back to good idea: y/n.
(Wait, that was kind of confusing.)
Which was the point. She was confused, and maybe that was the final straw: the thing that made her tap the door, wait for an answer. The thing that made her nibble on her bottom lip and then chew the knuckle of her left thumb, and contemplate running... then again, also the thing that made her not run.
It was that uncertainty. That paralyzing confusion. Her own fear, of the things around her and herself and everything that the things around her did to, well, herself. All of those things, and then the knowledge that letting them run loose was dangerous, both personally, and to the rest of the city... not to mention that it could compromise her judgment as a leader. Of sorts.
(As a something).
That's what kept her there. So she stood, waiting, chewing that knuckle, trying to decide what to say as she watched the door for signs of movement.