*has been rooted to the spot for the entirety of this little interlude, watching you in complete incomprehension (she's never heard so much language out of you in one sitting—certainly not directed at her, and she very much doubts you knew/know she could hear you dishing it out to Glorfindel that time, either)* *but even if the two of you are fighting again, that doesn't explain do I look like Ecthelion to you?*
You were probably shit at your job, anyway.
*presses her lips together, the tears brimming and spilling over with every ugly, utterly nonsensical word out of your mouth* *is dismayed, too, at the power you hold to wound her so thoroughly, so quickly* I'm fantastic at my job. You've got an insane Second and a pissed-off Third and this place is still chugging along, and you're not having to kill yourself (again) to do it, because I'm fantastic like that. (Or I was, because I do so very much fucking quit.)
*gets to her feet, her movements slow and shaky* *even more softly, because the hurt truly is greater than the anger at this point* You know... why is it suddenly okay for you to kiss me like that, but it's not okay for some other guy to backhand me into a table? And it's not like there weren't plenty of guys who grabbed my hair or my ass, or tried to shove their tongues down my throat, too. *bitingly (you were better than that, so much better)* At least they usually tipped me.