"Chris, wait," he steps away and Hawke bridges the gap, stopping short of grabbing but his fingers do find the front of the bag and linger there for a long moment. He feels the lack of Amelia's hand at his back the same as the lack of any emotion on Chris' face and he struggles with both so keenly that it's hard for him to speak further. He's moving again now, adrenaline ebbed and weariness set in and everything is halos and strange tastes but even for all that he can see the guilt roiling underneath the veneer that Chris pulls back into place and he can't ignore it. Not now, not when he's been through such a horrible experience and is trying so hard. At the back of Hawke's mind he knows there's something wrong with all of this. That he's doing wrong somehow, but as he can't focus on what that is, all he has is to simply forge again.
"I was scared too. We both were, we couldn't-" He tries to find words in his mess of a head, trying to find the right thing to say as comes so easily to him normally. The thing that will break the tension, that will convince Chris not to march off alone into the woods and leave them standing on the street with this heartache. Or that's just him, he doesn't know. He can't tell. He has to pull himself together. "I-I need to know this hasn't- That you'll be alright."
It's a stupid thing to say. He's not sure what he would have said instead, but he hates what came out of him. Desperation, a clinging reedy quality to his voice that wavers in the wake of what feels like everything that had been keeping him together no longer supporting his weight. He's not the one who needs time and room to fall apart, he shouldn't be asking for anything from Chris, he should be propping him up and telling him that he'll be alright. He should be certain. Decisive. A pillar of support. Instead he's standing covered in blood on the street between two people he loves dearly and unable to be of use to either one because he's too worn and too greedy to pick up his own pieces and set the world right.
"Chris." Softer, with no thread of desperation running through it now, but no less pleading. Please.
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"I was scared too. We both were, we couldn't-" He tries to find words in his mess of a head, trying to find the right thing to say as comes so easily to him normally. The thing that will break the tension, that will convince Chris not to march off alone into the woods and leave them standing on the street with this heartache. Or that's just him, he doesn't know. He can't tell. He has to pull himself together. "I-I need to know this hasn't- That you'll be alright."
It's a stupid thing to say. He's not sure what he would have said instead, but he hates what came out of him. Desperation, a clinging reedy quality to his voice that wavers in the wake of what feels like everything that had been keeping him together no longer supporting his weight. He's not the one who needs time and room to fall apart, he shouldn't be asking for anything from Chris, he should be propping him up and telling him that he'll be alright. He should be certain. Decisive. A pillar of support. Instead he's standing covered in blood on the street between two people he loves dearly and unable to be of use to either one because he's too worn and too greedy to pick up his own pieces and set the world right.
"Chris." Softer, with no thread of desperation running through it now, but no less pleading. Please.