It isn't her words that strike at Law in War hardest. It's her rage and every smoldering blast of breath that comes with them. That seems to burn him, render away any sureness he'd had in his quest and request in the first place, and when she says it - desecrate her grave and mutilate her body - he even flinches at the sentiment behind them.
The Philodox's hands stay open in front of him for a moment, even as he knows he will not get her hands to clean. But at that last part, her dismissal of his very presence, he closes them with a gorilla-curl to their digits, knuckles falling to the ground and dragged to his sides where he rests.
Jack's eyes fall down and away, away from the jaw that had bounced open and closed, biting and harsh, to deliver those words that had battered at his will. And then he looks back at her, this time finding her eyes as she rises. He stays on his knee, but he looks up at her as she gets to her feet.
His jaw slackens and despite the edge he'd brought her to before grief and loss and, yes, restraint, had stricken her voice, he speaks again.
"We're family. You're not alone," and Jack does not get up to leave even as she dismisses him. Calls him a scavenger. Which he is. A skulker. Which he is. But one with a spine, and more importantly a heart. And he wears it now as he shovels down the rage and bares sympathy and compassion for her instead. "She's not put t'rest. Yer still bleeding."
The Philodox's hands stay open in front of him for a moment, even as he knows he will not get her hands to clean. But at that last part, her dismissal of his very presence, he closes them with a gorilla-curl to their digits, knuckles falling to the ground and dragged to his sides where he rests.
Jack's eyes fall down and away, away from the jaw that had bounced open and closed, biting and harsh, to deliver those words that had battered at his will. And then he looks back at her, this time finding her eyes as she rises. He stays on his knee, but he looks up at her as she gets to her feet.
His jaw slackens and despite the edge he'd brought her to before grief and loss and, yes, restraint, had stricken her voice, he speaks again.
"We're family. You're not alone," and Jack does not get up to leave even as she dismisses him. Calls him a scavenger. Which he is. A skulker. Which he is. But one with a spine, and more importantly a heart. And he wears it now as he shovels down the rage and bares sympathy and compassion for her instead. "She's not put t'rest. Yer still bleeding."