[ Anger would be easier to handle than disappointment, or worse, empathy. Clea doesn't know what to do with softness after ages of pain and isolation. Why isn't he furious? How can he be so calm? ]
I'll be there in a moment.
[ And she kept her word, the knock coming sharp and confident even if the woman behind the door felt anything but. ]
[The first thing he did when beginning to work was lock the door. There is no desire to surround himself with people when those whose company he desires want none of his after the other night. But he knows she will come. She will want to make sense of everything.
He lets her choose when and makes himself available to listen. He unlocks the door, staring down at her curiously for a moment. It had been a difficult night for her, but he is here and available to listen as he steps back and ushers her through the door.]
[ She was never a child, but here she was, standing at attention in the middle of Renoir's room, hands folded politely behind her back as though Clea were a young girl owning up to fault. ]
I wanted to apologize for my behavior. [ To the world, she was perfectly still. Calm and controlled. To her father, Clea was a wreck, and she knew he would see that. ] It was appalling. I take full responsibility for what happened.
And while I hardly expect forgiveness, I'd hoped you might — [ A beat. A break in her facade. ] I'd hoped you might — [ She exhaled hard, frustrated with herself, clutching her hands more tightly and blinking through tears. ]
[Once Clea is inside he returns to locking the door. There are to be no interruptions when his eldest child is relinquishing control under his gaze; sharing her thoughts and awaiting judgement. He redirects his attention to where it is needed. That young woman standing before him as though she was a young girl, afraid she had failed her family.
Sometimes one must be a father to a daughter. Other times one must be a papa. The parent who spoils her and lets her have what she wants, rather than what he thinks she needs.
He leans onto his cane with his right hand, extending his left arm. If she chooses, she can take his hand or embrace his arm - and find herself welcomed into his embrace. Comforted by his warm and protective presence.
Were he outraged at her behaviour, would she even have this opportunity?
Opportunity. He understands exactly what she needs.]
[ It was such a wholly unexpected response, such a shocking departure from what she'd prepared and braced herself for, that when Renoir invited her forward, Clea broke down into sobs. They were ugly, and loud, and it startled her, but there was no stopping this once the dam had broken. She went into his arms almost forcefully, clutching at his jacket and burying her face against his chest.
Here, for a brief moment, Clea allowed herself the opportunity to seek shelter from the world. To grieve everything she'd lost, and missed, and failed to protect. It was weakness. But for once, she didn't feel as awful about it as she usually did. She felt safe. And she desperately needed that. ]
[Renoir says nothing to draw attention to her emotion. He listens to every crack breaking within her throat, every tear falling down her face. He endures her fingers curling into his jacket, each clawing with the force she never had the chance to turn against those who had taken everything. His knowledge of his family means he cannot fail to understand the rarity of this moment, the enormity of what his daughter is sharing.
Herself. Imperfect.
His left arm gently crosses her back and holds her close without pressure. His right hand grasps his cane so he can cross his arm across its opposite, willing to bear her weight as long as she needs. His embrace affords her room. She has the freedom to remain while she wants. She has the freedom to escape when she wants.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I'll be there in a moment.
[ And she kept her word, the knock coming sharp and confident even if the woman behind the door felt anything but. ]
no subject
He lets her choose when and makes himself available to listen. He unlocks the door, staring down at her curiously for a moment. It had been a difficult night for her, but he is here and available to listen as he steps back and ushers her through the door.]
no subject
I wanted to apologize for my behavior. [ To the world, she was perfectly still. Calm and controlled. To her father, Clea was a wreck, and she knew he would see that. ] It was appalling. I take full responsibility for what happened.
And while I hardly expect forgiveness, I'd hoped you might — [ A beat. A break in her facade. ] I'd hoped you might — [ She exhaled hard, frustrated with herself, clutching her hands more tightly and blinking through tears. ]
no subject
Sometimes one must be a father to a daughter. Other times one must be a papa. The parent who spoils her and lets her have what she wants, rather than what he thinks she needs.
He leans onto his cane with his right hand, extending his left arm. If she chooses, she can take his hand or embrace his arm - and find herself welcomed into his embrace. Comforted by his warm and protective presence.
Were he outraged at her behaviour, would she even have this opportunity?
Opportunity. He understands exactly what she needs.]
no subject
Here, for a brief moment, Clea allowed herself the opportunity to seek shelter from the world. To grieve everything she'd lost, and missed, and failed to protect. It was weakness. But for once, she didn't feel as awful about it as she usually did. She felt safe. And she desperately needed that. ]
no subject
Herself. Imperfect.
His left arm gently crosses her back and holds her close without pressure. His right hand grasps his cane so he can cross his arm across its opposite, willing to bear her weight as long as she needs. His embrace affords her room. She has the freedom to remain while she wants. She has the freedom to escape when she wants.]