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There’s a certain amount of discomfort and guilt that burrows itself deep in Cinder’s stomach when she looks at Thorne. It’s that faraway, seeing nothing gaze and the silence that cloaks him. Blind. He’s blind, and it’s all she can do to not scream at him to get over it already.
Which isn’t fair.
She knows it’s not fair.
And she can’t fix his eyes the same way she could fix his ship or Iko’s body, and she’s just not good with people. She should have been there with him. He would have for her.
“If you swallow that hard again, you’re going to wake the whole ship,” Thorne tells her suddenly. She jumps. She doesn’t mean to.
“I’m not swallowing hard.”
“You’re not good at stealth either.”
He gestures with his hand at - well, air, but she thinks it’s meant to be at her leg. He’s not even close. So much for losing one sense heightening the others. Maybe that’s good in his case, it means he’ll heal.
Cinder needs Thorne to heal.
He pats the floor next to him, in invitation. She hesitates when she doesn’t mean to, but the lopsided smile that crosses his mouth tells her that he’s not offended. She wishes he’d pretend to be, give her hell. Something. Anything.
But she comes to sit next to him, her knee against his. It’s strange how easy it is for them to lapse into intimacy. He doesn’t ever flinch from her body, and there are times where she doesn’t mind feeling his skin against hers: a hand, leaning against each other. Cinder doesn’t do intimacy. She wants to, knows that there’s parts of her that are so starved for affection that she thinks her body would collapse into a hug, a kiss on the top of her head, a hand on her cheek.
But she’s a princess, and she’s Cinder, and a cyborg on top of it all.
“Something’s clearly wrong,” she finally says. The words feel clunky in her mouth.
He waves a hand around his face. “Tell me about it.”
She’s so glad he can’t see, because she flinches. If she could blush, she would. “Not your eyes.”
“I can’t imagine what else it would be,” he mutters.
Cinder leans her head against a wall. “Did something happen out there, with Cress?”
His lips part, but nothing comes out. That’s not right. This is Thorne. He always has a quip, an excuse, something idiotic to say.
“Nope.”
He’s lying.
“You’ve been avoiding her.”
Cinder is oblivious at best when it comes to people, but even she can see the way that Cress stares at Thorne, like he’s suddenly the sun and she’s been underground. It - it makes her uncomfortable, and she can’t really figure out why. Like Cress has found something that Cinder hasn’t, and she doesn’t like that. After everything, after what they’ve gone through together. Her first friend outside of Iko, her first ally. He’s faced everything with her with a joke and a smile and never once tried to walk away, and here comes this -
Oh.
Oh.
Well, that’s something to figure out later.
“What do you think of me?”
If she didn’t know better, she’d think Thorne was just this side of perceptive, but his voice is distracted, like he’s only partially here with her.
“You’re annoying,” Cinder says because it’s the first thing that pops into her head.
He manages a weak grin at her, running his hand through messy blonde hair. “Tell me more.”
“Dumb. Brave. Loyal. Stubborn. Did I mention dumb?” she asks.
“Once or twice,” he replies. “Do you think - Stars, this is going to sound stupid - do you think I could be a hero?”
Cinder blinks. Once, twice, doesn’t know what to say. What does that even mean?
“Uh.”
Yeah, that’s not a helpful response. She can see it written on his face, the exasperation, the way his mood falls in the lines of his mouth. She’s never seen him like this, carrying his pain out loud.
He shifts away from her.
“Thorne, you’re exactly who you’re supposed to be,” she starts, her words slow and careful. “I don’t know if that makes you a hero anymore than it makes me one. You’re a thief, a criminal, a fugitive, and you’re coming with me to Luna to fight a war that’s not even yours.”
“It’s yours.” He shrugs. “That’s good enough.”
“That’s what I mean about being dumb, by the way.”
“Insult me more, you know how I love it.” And for the first time, he sounds like himself. She breathes a sigh of relief.
“I want you to be you.”
He turns to look at her, and she hates how handsome he is, how vulnerable and disheveled and desperate for some confirmation of who he’s supposed to be. She wonders where this has come from, and why.
“I could be better.”
Cinder shrugs, realizes that he can’t see it, and sighs. “We could all be better.”
“Thanks.”
Her hand is on his shoulder before she can think about, and he twitches. Her fingers dig into the sleeve of his shirt, the heel of her hand coming up, down, up again in an awkward pat. His brow furrows.
“Cinder?”
“I’m not good at this,” she mutters.
“At… what?”
“Hug.”
“What?”
“Would a hug help?” She forces the words out in such a rapid rate, she practically screams it.
He grins.
His smile is the smile of an absolute cad, and it’s charming all the same. It’s not like Kai’s, perfect and beautiful and poised. This is reckless in all corners. His arms open wide.
She regrets this already, but he’s already folding her up in his embrace, and for a second, she’s confused. She’s supposed to be comforting him, maybe an awkward pat on his head like the world’s worst mother. Instead, she finds her cheek pressed to his chest, her torso twisting uncomfortably. His heartbeat is a steady patter in her ear. He’s warm, his hold tight. His breath is a warm puff against the top of her head.
Cinder’s never really been held before. At least, she doesn’t remember if she has been. This is nice. Carefully, she wraps her arms around him.
“I’ll be here as long as takes,” she whispers. “For you to be better, if you want.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll still be here.”