He still labours under the illusion that he somehow keeps the worst of himself from her. The drunkenness. The bitterness. For the few times he's laid it at her feet he's spent more nights alone with it and that seems like a reasonable ratio. He can, if he tries, pretend she can still think he's fine.

"Oh. Right," likewise he keeps the frown to himself and the bedsheets, all too easily accepting. "Of course."