Darlene holds off on the huge eyeroll she was going to give Elliot. In other circumstances, this would require a considerable effort. Not this time, because her sarcasm has been replaced by a flicker of concern. The specifics of the symbiote, the place to assign blame: all of it is so important to Darlene, but not more important than Elliot.
"Okay," she says, again, this time more slowly, "well, now is not the time to debate semantics or whatever, so why don't you just tell me what you mean. What happened, Elliot."
Or, else, show, if he can't or won't tell. It's an option that she considers with some reluctance, and only because she's caught the tail-end of his confusion. It's a weird realization of something Darlene has only ever picked up in the peripheral. She has only ever able to explain or predict or guess at the triggers that make Elliot look at her the way he is looking now, like there is something moving around inside of him, like he's sifting through his hard memory for some explanation or backup or resolution to the task that she has asked him. Now she feels the question, the uncertainty that sinks in deep like a slow bruise. Things forgotten, overwritten, deleted. A memory bank with burn scars. A chip sizzling in a microwave.
It's not in Darlene to let down walls or verbalize her intentions. Everyone is welcome to try to figure her out. Elliot knows her pretty freaking well, and anyways, they've got this network connection between them. He'll be able to tell that she's being as inviting as she can. What happened, plaintive. An invitation.
no subject
"Okay," she says, again, this time more slowly, "well, now is not the time to debate semantics or whatever, so why don't you just tell me what you mean. What happened, Elliot."
Or, else, show, if he can't or won't tell. It's an option that she considers with some reluctance, and only because she's caught the tail-end of his confusion. It's a weird realization of something Darlene has only ever picked up in the peripheral. She has only ever able to explain or predict or guess at the triggers that make Elliot look at her the way he is looking now, like there is something moving around inside of him, like he's sifting through his hard memory for some explanation or backup or resolution to the task that she has asked him. Now she feels the question, the uncertainty that sinks in deep like a slow bruise. Things forgotten, overwritten, deleted. A memory bank with burn scars. A chip sizzling in a microwave.
It's not in Darlene to let down walls or verbalize her intentions. Everyone is welcome to try to figure her out. Elliot knows her pretty freaking well, and anyways, they've got this network connection between them. He'll be able to tell that she's being as inviting as she can. What happened, plaintive. An invitation.