Her reasoning was correct, though he could only guess at it: anything less, and he would have continued.
In the seconds following his fall, he found it too difficult to lift his head, to mind the loud and discordant world above him. Above the surface, under which he held his breath and fought the water's pull. He wanted to look up, to attend what Inoue-san declared -- doubtless something to stay a nurse, to prevent further attention -- and to assist in waving off any approach, to play along. He couldn't, not when everything was the gray blurred (to close to his lenses) in front of his eyes, and the fabric against his forehead, and the cool, waxed floor beneath his fingertips, now striking on his sweaty palms.
Pathetic, that such a thing could fell him. That he could still be in such a state. It wasn't an underestimation of Inoue-san's ability, his shock -- he'd known since Soul Society, after all, that he'd better not fight with Inoue-san. But, it shouldn't have hit so hard; he couldn't be so weak, it hadn't been that bad (worse, worst), or it shouldn't be still, after the fact. His frustration fueled him, rising like a wave that beat at the spinning nausea, that righted the ground.
When she knelt beside him, he knew it, pulled himself together and stitching hastily enough that he could look, sidelong, past his lenses so she appeared as indistinct colors, shapes he could clarify by squinting, by filling in the blanks with what his mind knew and expected. Though she spoke quietly, her voice filtered through the blood rushing and beating in his ears, in his head, which he tried to shake in response.
Don't apologize (though he was annoyed, he could recognize that he'd brought it on himself), and you don't know, not really; that's too generous. Too generous to say that, in his selfishness, he had protected her, or tried to. He hadn't done anything worthy of her gratitude.
"You shouldn't," he managed, raising his head enough that he did not speak it into his sweats, having taken care and time to be certain that his voice would not waver, though it came grit and small.
Then, she lifted her hand, and he stared. Long fingers, feminine, and well-kept nails. Everything in him demanded that he stand alone. That he push his hands against the floor and straighten in a smooth, collected motion. Perhaps tense with the struggle he strained to keep hidden, perhaps this side of shakey and unsteady, but able to do it on his own. Without assistance, strong enough, neither troubled nor troubling.
He closed his eyes and inhaled, and wrestled with it. And reached for her hand.
"If I didn't let you," he said, with a weak twist in his mouth, feigning petulant indignation, an accusation, "I bet Inoue-san would have yanked me up and forced it."
His other hand grabbed for the tray, remembering the issue. "And you can ask, anyway."
no subject
In the seconds following his fall, he found it too difficult to lift his head, to mind the loud and discordant world above him. Above the surface, under which he held his breath and fought the water's pull. He wanted to look up, to attend what Inoue-san declared -- doubtless something to stay a nurse, to prevent further attention -- and to assist in waving off any approach, to play along. He couldn't, not when everything was the gray blurred (to close to his lenses) in front of his eyes, and the fabric against his forehead, and the cool, waxed floor beneath his fingertips, now striking on his sweaty palms.
Pathetic, that such a thing could fell him. That he could still be in such a state. It wasn't an underestimation of Inoue-san's ability, his shock -- he'd known since Soul Society, after all, that he'd better not fight with Inoue-san. But, it shouldn't have hit so hard; he couldn't be so weak, it hadn't been that bad (worse, worst), or it shouldn't be still, after the fact. His frustration fueled him, rising like a wave that beat at the spinning nausea, that righted the ground.
When she knelt beside him, he knew it, pulled himself together and stitching hastily enough that he could look, sidelong, past his lenses so she appeared as indistinct colors, shapes he could clarify by squinting, by filling in the blanks with what his mind knew and expected. Though she spoke quietly, her voice filtered through the blood rushing and beating in his ears, in his head, which he tried to shake in response.
Don't apologize (though he was annoyed, he could recognize that he'd brought it on himself), and you don't know, not really; that's too generous. Too generous to say that, in his selfishness, he had protected her, or tried to. He hadn't done anything worthy of her gratitude.
"You shouldn't," he managed, raising his head enough that he did not speak it into his sweats, having taken care and time to be certain that his voice would not waver, though it came grit and small.
Then, she lifted her hand, and he stared. Long fingers, feminine, and well-kept nails. Everything in him demanded that he stand alone. That he push his hands against the floor and straighten in a smooth, collected motion. Perhaps tense with the struggle he strained to keep hidden, perhaps this side of shakey and unsteady, but able to do it on his own. Without assistance, strong enough, neither troubled nor troubling.
He closed his eyes and inhaled, and wrestled with it. And reached for her hand.
"If I didn't let you," he said, with a weak twist in his mouth, feigning petulant indignation, an accusation, "I bet Inoue-san would have yanked me up and forced it."
His other hand grabbed for the tray, remembering the issue. "And you can ask, anyway."