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in her dreams she is bold.
in her dreams, when he comes to cut her hair she snatches the scissors from his hands and plunges them into his chest, over and over and over.
in her dreams, she pulls away from his embrace and pulls the gun from his hip and pulls (and pulls and pulls) the trigger.
in her dreams, she abandons all subtlety and wraps her hands around his throat.
in her dreams, she screams and scratches at his face and his eyes and his neck, all claws and bared teeth and blazing eyes.
in her dreams her siren tattoos flare and he flares with them, falling apart.
in her dreams he begs as he dies, screaming apologies and promises and i-love-you's. in her dreams she doesn't flinch when he says it.
in her dreams she steps, shaking, out of the bunker and blinks in the sunlight. she has friends who smile and hold out their hands and she leaves with them and never looks back.
awake.. she isn't bold. she isn't a coward but she knows her limits, her strengths.
she watches the vault hunters, watches maya with hair the colour of the sky she misses and the tattoos like hers, maya who shot the man she called father, and she wishes, and plans, and waits.
she'll never feel his blood beneath her hands, but that's okay.
he'll die alone and know she helped kill him, and that's enough.