"You could stay here tonight." red-eyed and earnest, a corner of one eye twitches. It's a sign she'll learn (will have learned) that he knows he's pushing his luck and chancing it anyway. "Just in case."
He's always pushed; sometimes too far, others not far enough. Right now she takes it as a good sign; lately the closest he's come is showing up drunk on her doorstep, whether invited or not.
"We do have night staff on call, you know." A pause, and a slight downward tilt of her chin. "I haven't eaten yet." Which is a very good reason not to stay, though not necessarily one that would prevent her from coming back.
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."
The best he can hope for-- and so far, he's succeeded, mostly-- is to keep her from realizing how bad it is. But fine, that he can't fake.
She's looking down, gaze a little unfocused.
"I can..." She hesitates. The truth is it's not such a bad prospect; the one luxury of crashing at the hospital is it's always full of people, day and night.
And she's afraid, in that apartment on her own. He knows that, now (and with the sugar of the candy heart still clinging to his teeth it felt like something he'd always knows) but how to change things for the better, for her?
He's not the one good at telling what's best for someone.
(He can't be what's best for her).
He'll show up, when he can. If it takes alcohol as an excuse well, maybe in a way that's to make the both of them more comfortable. But for now, he can pretend he wants her to stay here for her sake, and know it's for his.
"I won't be going anywhere," and that's oddly hopeful.
For once in his life it's the right answer; indirect but affirming. Whether she can accommodate it is a different question. Stopping by after grabbing dinner, at least, she can manage. Staying over-- giving up the luxury of a little time alone, and it is a luxury here-- might be too much to ask.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
☞ but we're always in repair
She pulls her hand back, but slowly.
☞ but we're always in repair
☞ but we're always in repair
"We do have night staff on call, you know." A pause, and a slight downward tilt of her chin. "I haven't eaten yet." Which is a very good reason not to stay, though not necessarily one that would prevent her from coming back.
☞ but we're always in repair
"Oh. Right," likewise he keeps the frown to himself and the bedsheets, all too easily accepting. "Of course."
☞ but we're always in repair
She's looking down, gaze a little unfocused.
"I can..." She hesitates. The truth is it's not such a bad prospect; the one luxury of crashing at the hospital is it's always full of people, day and night.
"I could come back, and check in later on."
☞ but we're always in repair
He's not the one good at telling what's best for someone.
(He can't be what's best for her).
He'll show up, when he can. If it takes alcohol as an excuse well, maybe in a way that's to make the both of them more comfortable. But for now, he can pretend he wants her to stay here for her sake, and know it's for his.
"I won't be going anywhere," and that's oddly hopeful.
☞ but we're always in repair
For once in his life it's the right answer; indirect but affirming. Whether she can accommodate it is a different question. Stopping by after grabbing dinner, at least, she can manage. Staying over-- giving up the luxury of a little time alone, and it is a luxury here-- might be too much to ask.
"I'll be back."
At least for a little while.