She hums wryly, in acknowledgment if not outright agreement, though she notes that he grabs the bottle, anyway. Maybe it's more for her, but she thinks that she, too, has had enough. One of them ought to keep a somewhat clear head. And hitting the bottle now would feel too much like an admission of wrongdoing, as if she has to numb herself to the reality of what she's done.
But it's not the first time she's skirted the boundaries of the moral high ground with a clear head and open eyes. It's not the first time she's decided that what she wants is worth a little muddying.
So when she settles beside him on the couch, she doesn't bother with polite distances. Who's going to judge them, now -- the rats? Instead, she tucks right up next to him, as if to better reassure him that she's here, solid and warm and not going anywhere.
"You've done the same for me," she says. It's not exactly the same, if only because her own sins pale so dramatically in contrast to his, but it's near enough. "And I..." she pauses, lips pursed in frustration. None of this seems right without music; she doesn't know how to simply talk about things like this: how she feels, what she owes him, what she'd give willingly if he asked. How do people do it? Her cheeks prickle as she curls her arms around him, petulant but stubborn in the face of this obstacle she doesn't yet know how to circumvent. "I'm not leaving you," she finally says, as if the very suggestion is an affront.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2018-03-18 08:52 pm (UTC)But it's not the first time she's skirted the boundaries of the moral high ground with a clear head and open eyes. It's not the first time she's decided that what she wants is worth a little muddying.
So when she settles beside him on the couch, she doesn't bother with polite distances. Who's going to judge them, now -- the rats? Instead, she tucks right up next to him, as if to better reassure him that she's here, solid and warm and not going anywhere.
"You've done the same for me," she says. It's not exactly the same, if only because her own sins pale so dramatically in contrast to his, but it's near enough. "And I..." she pauses, lips pursed in frustration. None of this seems right without music; she doesn't know how to simply talk about things like this: how she feels, what she owes him, what she'd give willingly if he asked. How do people do it? Her cheeks prickle as she curls her arms around him, petulant but stubborn in the face of this obstacle she doesn't yet know how to circumvent. "I'm not leaving you," she finally says, as if the very suggestion is an affront.