My bandaged hand did its best to grip my good hand, because any alternative was to have my hands shake, and I didn’t want to show weakness. Weakness was my second-to-last resort, and it was ranked as such because it was volatile. Every time I’d been weak in front of her, she’d used her power on me. If I counted when we’d been Goddess-compelled as a time of weakness, she’d tried. And every time she’d had reasons but she’d still done it, and she’d done it without my okay.

Even the day she’d triggered, now that I thought about it. Almost a year into me having my powers, a gang called the Chorus had attacked a mall in Brockton Bay. I’d gotten hurt, Amy had triggered, and she’d healed me. The gang didn’t endure our retaliation or Coil’s expansion of activities as he’d claimed more of downtown. It had seemed like such a rare, clear-cut case of a trigger event providing an answer to the problem at hand, no fuss, no muss.

Fucking ha. Fuck.

No, weakness was a resort only because I knew the only way to truly get through to her was to bludgeon her, to go all out. I couldn’t smack her without consequences, shouting her down risked bringing people to us and threatening the trade deal, which seemed so far away now. My tools for breaking through were like my harsh comments earlier, driven by loathing, cutting remarks, blunt observations, challenges. Insults.

But they had to be timed. Each time, there was a risk she’d find her footing, throw up walls, map out a route around the thought… and that tool wouldn’t cut as sharply or penetrate as deep the next time around.

And when I’d exhausted nearly every other option available to me, maybe, just maybe, I’d let her see more of how scared of her I was. How hopeless I felt this situation was.

Leaving me my last resort.

“You’re right.”

I looked at her. Train of thought interrupted. I couldn’t help but resent her for it. The latest in years of her butting into my head, whether she knew she was doing it or not.

“My thoughts were somewhere else. What are you talking about?”

“About the emotions. I read them, I should know why you’d flinch. You’re right,” she said.

I didn’t fill the silence. Dot crawled out of Amy’s hair, down her arm, and onto her hand. Amy moved that hand into her lap, partially covering Dot with her other hand, two untattooed fingers behind Dot’s ear.

Scratch, scratch.

“Fair,” Amy added, almost like it was an afterthought.

“Do you think I’ve been unfair?” I asked. I had to measure out each word because keeping my voice stable felt like walking a tightrope, with a scary sort of chaos lying below.