[ Shame is a vanishingly rare experience for Lalo. He's never one to shy away from the limelight or not court everyone's attention, and he's never felt guilty or bad about a single atrocity he's ever committed. Shameless would be a pretty apt way to describe him, in fact.
But it means that when he does feel shame, it burns inside of him with a ferocious intensity. He's unprepared for it, unused to it, and he's experienced more public humiliation in the past couple of days than he has in years. These urges to twist in on himself until he disappears - to scream at everyone to DON'T - STOP - STOP LOOKING AT ME - when usually he loves attention and drinks up everyone's gaze, real and metaphorical - he feels like he's going to burst open from being too filled with shame. ]
Don't tell me what to - [ He starts to snap at the detective. Remind him that Lalo isn't a child. But something inside him makes him stop. Take the detective's advice. Do what he's told. ] Fine.
[ Irritably, a little skeptically, he takes a breath and rolls his eyes. But then he does what Rust says. Finds his pulse. It's racing from anger and heightened emotions. Deep breaths. Feel the pulse. Feel it. He concentrates on the sensation of each dull throb under his two fingers, pressed together. Deep breath. One deep breath, then another.
There's nothing else right now except the feeling of his pulse, his warm skin, under his fingers. It's genuinely pleasant and calming in a way he didn't expect, didn't actually think would work. It sounded like bullshit to him, but as the cabin and the growling monster inside of it and the judgments of people on the network start to slowly melt away, he feels his breathing and his pulse start to get more even. Something warm and light floods his chest, then spreads out through the rest of his body.
The walkie is switched off for a moment; he can't do this properly if he's focused on anything else. His chest rises and falls. Slowly. Steadily. There's the crash of the angry waves, his chest moving up and down, and his pulse, slowly evening out. And nothing else.
Soon the walkie clicks back on. ]
...Almost steady. [ His voice softer, calmer. There's something unspoken in the softness of his voice, too. Gracias. ]
no subject
But it means that when he does feel shame, it burns inside of him with a ferocious intensity. He's unprepared for it, unused to it, and he's experienced more public humiliation in the past couple of days than he has in years. These urges to twist in on himself until he disappears - to scream at everyone to DON'T - STOP - STOP LOOKING AT ME - when usually he loves attention and drinks up everyone's gaze, real and metaphorical - he feels like he's going to burst open from being too filled with shame. ]
Don't tell me what to - [ He starts to snap at the detective. Remind him that Lalo isn't a child. But something inside him makes him stop. Take the detective's advice. Do what he's told. ] Fine.
[ Irritably, a little skeptically, he takes a breath and rolls his eyes. But then he does what Rust says. Finds his pulse. It's racing from anger and heightened emotions. Deep breaths. Feel the pulse. Feel it. He concentrates on the sensation of each dull throb under his two fingers, pressed together. Deep breath. One deep breath, then another.
There's nothing else right now except the feeling of his pulse, his warm skin, under his fingers. It's genuinely pleasant and calming in a way he didn't expect, didn't actually think would work. It sounded like bullshit to him, but as the cabin and the growling monster inside of it and the judgments of people on the network start to slowly melt away, he feels his breathing and his pulse start to get more even. Something warm and light floods his chest, then spreads out through the rest of his body.
The walkie is switched off for a moment; he can't do this properly if he's focused on anything else. His chest rises and falls. Slowly. Steadily. There's the crash of the angry waves, his chest moving up and down, and his pulse, slowly evening out. And nothing else.
Soon the walkie clicks back on. ]
...Almost steady. [ His voice softer, calmer. There's something unspoken in the softness of his voice, too. Gracias. ]