Bastille didn't bother to return Suiteheart's smile, but he had a feeling she wasn't really expecting him to. He'd kept a wide breadth of her in general, incapable of avoiding her completely but doing his damned best to keep her at a distance; he might speak to her out of necessity, but that was it. She got no humor, no additional attention, no warmth from him, and perhaps he was stubborn but so was she, evidently, if she took no interest in fixing the rift. All he needed from her was to be a good Admiral and to take care of the group once she finally stabbed him in the back, and he had that. She was otherwise nothing to him.

He rolled his eyes as he caught the distaste shifting between her and Gen, and ignored them as he opted for eyeing his choices in partners. His attention alighted on Roy, and there was a hint of a smirk there as he realized that he never actually got to try him out for a spar. Sure, they both seemed to be fans of training, and Roy certainly shared his views on pacifism, but Bast only ever got to see him practice from the outside. What was the fun in that? "Roy," he drawled, jerking his head slightly in an indication that he join him. Wash would be an interesting match, too, but he'd probably call him "sir" in response and get all tensed up, which was... to be avoided. Desperately. Roy didn't respect him in the slightest, which was significantly less horrifying to deal with.

His attention was torn away by Gen, however, and he tensed the second he realized who her attention had fixed on. There was a split second of processing before he was between the two, as if Gen might make a physical advance even if Bast knew logically that it was unlikely. He couldn't help it, though -- his first inclination would always be to defend Hazel, and he could feel the distress starting to filter through their bond in degrees; he didn't have to look over his shoulder at her to know the words were going to hit and hit hard.

And there was anger there, brewing violently in his veins -- he could feel the flames of it crackling in his blood, his paws heating up against the ground as he struggled to rein it back, to hold his temper in check. Because how fucking dare she, but also, who was he to judge? He knew exactly how hard Margy might be fighting against herself just then, and he grit his teeth hard as he glared at Gen evenly. Keep it in check, keep it in check. He was no better than her, not when it came down to it, and what he'd said to Margy was probably worse than this.

"Don't say anything Margy is going to regret, Gen," he finally breathed out lowly, despite the fact that he wanted to spit that she already had, "Fighting doesn't prove worth, and neither does tearing everyone else down. Hazel doesn't have to try it yet if she's not ready, and you don't need to comment on it." He pushed back hard against the nasty flare in his gut, the temptation to lash out in response, and reminded himself that it was still Margy. That it wasn't her fault, not really, and yelling at her would only make shit worse. He didn't dare to glance at Hazel because he was certain that if she saw her face he'd lose it.

Hazel knew she was in for a real treat the moment Genevieve turned those eerie optics her way. She could see the change — the glint of sudden interest — in her aura, and felt it sink into her bones as cold hard dread. The girl in her brain was already dripping with anticipation, biting her tongue and waiting on the edge of her seat to sneer at Hazel like a mirror of Gen.

Hazel’s eyes, saucer wide as Gen sauntered her way, glistened with unshed tears far quicker than she would have liked. This was too sensitive a subject; it struck a nerve too close to locked memories. Too close to something Hazel was just waiting to prove to herself, knowing that she was weak and useless and of fucking course it didn’t make any sense for her to be there —

Just a walking liability, Leered the girl, giddy. Just a petty little princess too afraid that Mommy’s going to come get her because she was too weak to stand up for herself. And god, Hazel could feel the guilt crawl down her spine; could feel it sink down low as Gen ripped her apart, exposing the deepest little bits of reason for self-loathing. Because one day? Ha. Hazel was pretty sure that one day wouldn’t ever arrive, and she’d be stuck, dancing the same dance in the same shoes because Genevieve was right, she was just a coward who watched and didn’t deserve to have anything here.

Bastille’s surge of anger caught her off guard, and she startled, distraught golden gaze ripping itself away from Genevieve’s bored, emotionless stare. There it was again — that inability to stand up for herself; the crippling pressure of associating everything cynical and aimed at her as if it came from Mother’s lips.

“It’s fine,” Hazel finally managed, realizing that they were about to make a major scene where one was unnecessary. “Don’t worry about it. She’s right.” She wouldn’t pretend her voice wasn’t shaking, wouldn’t pretend that her heart was dripping with the ice that was knowing everyone saw her as useless, too.

Awe — is baby gonna go sit in a corner, now? teased the voice. Are you gonna go lick your wounds and feel sorry for yourself? Hazel didn’t try to stop the girl as she eased herself from the scene, ducking out without a second glance so people wouldn’t miss what didn’t matter.

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★