That laugh startles Ned; firstly, because it seems such a strange response, to him. He'd imagined any number of responses but that kind of rich, surprised laughter certainly wasn't one of them. Secondly, it surprises him because he realizes, right then, that he's never heard Erik laugh before. At least, not like this. That laugh, and the way Erik says his name (he isn't aware of the power it has, but that doesn't reduce its impact in the least) both contribute to inspire a strange, budding feeling in his chest. A tentative, tiny burst of happiness, even pride.
He doesn't want that happiness, doesn't want that pride. It's dangerous to feel those things. Because the numbers are getting lower and Ned knows what needs to come next. He's had too many moments of false hope in his life to welcome it. By now he's familiar with the pattern: break his own rules, do something risky in the hopes of making things better, feel hope, end up making things worse, feel disappointment. As often as he can he tries to stamp out those little sprouts of hope in himself, before they take root. That way it will hurt less, when the consequences come, as they always do.
Ned can't wait any longer. Erik's eyes are heavy on him as he comes forward again, touches the deer with the same finger he'd used the last time, in the same place. The minimal amount of contact. It is more than enough. There is another electric sound, noticeably different than the first. The deer glows once more, a pale blue, and goes instantly stiff and motionless again. It feels even colder to the touch, now, by contrast.
This has always been more difficult for Ned. He doesn't particularly enjoy the first touch, but the second touch is... awful. Seeing and feeling the way that a tiny amount of contact with him can kill, instantly and irreversibly. The sound of it, the look of it, inescapably recalls to him the first time it had happened. He has gotten better at keeping the memory at arm's length, not letting it creep up and swallow him whole, but the presence of it is there at the corner of his mind.
Most of the time, when he uses his powers, it is merely on fruit. He never touches that fruit a second time. When he'd brought back Laura, he had avoided this half of things. Ned of course, hates it when something or someone else dies in exchange, but it is distinctly easier than feeling something die under his own hand.
He knows he's been crouching there for some time without saying anything. Erik is looking at him; he can feel the weight of his eyes, but he can't look up at them. Instead he continues to look at the deer, resting his whole hand on it, now, smoothing down the short hair over its ribs. There is a tenderness in that touch, and a regret.
"It only works once," he says, voice gone a shade hollow.
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He doesn't want that happiness, doesn't want that pride. It's dangerous to feel those things. Because the numbers are getting lower and Ned knows what needs to come next. He's had too many moments of false hope in his life to welcome it. By now he's familiar with the pattern: break his own rules, do something risky in the hopes of making things better, feel hope, end up making things worse, feel disappointment. As often as he can he tries to stamp out those little sprouts of hope in himself, before they take root. That way it will hurt less, when the consequences come, as they always do.
Ned can't wait any longer. Erik's eyes are heavy on him as he comes forward again, touches the deer with the same finger he'd used the last time, in the same place. The minimal amount of contact. It is more than enough. There is another electric sound, noticeably different than the first. The deer glows once more, a pale blue, and goes instantly stiff and motionless again. It feels even colder to the touch, now, by contrast.
This has always been more difficult for Ned. He doesn't particularly enjoy the first touch, but the second touch is... awful. Seeing and feeling the way that a tiny amount of contact with him can kill, instantly and irreversibly. The sound of it, the look of it, inescapably recalls to him the first time it had happened. He has gotten better at keeping the memory at arm's length, not letting it creep up and swallow him whole, but the presence of it is there at the corner of his mind.
Most of the time, when he uses his powers, it is merely on fruit. He never touches that fruit a second time. When he'd brought back Laura, he had avoided this half of things. Ned of course, hates it when something or someone else dies in exchange, but it is distinctly easier than feeling something die under his own hand.
He knows he's been crouching there for some time without saying anything. Erik is looking at him; he can feel the weight of his eyes, but he can't look up at them. Instead he continues to look at the deer, resting his whole hand on it, now, smoothing down the short hair over its ribs. There is a tenderness in that touch, and a regret.
"It only works once," he says, voice gone a shade hollow.