[Goddamnit he'd never say no, mask or not, most of the time doesn't even say no if he doesn't give a damn about the person and his expression is edging toward a genuinely upset sort of irritation until she looks at him. It doesn't leave, but it doesn't get worse as she goes on and a slight curiosity filters in, just tiny twitches of his mouth and narrowing of his eyes. He kind of tilts his head and kind of ducks it, both movements a little too slight for them to be bashful - more like he's literally trying to see what she's saying with a better angle.
After a moment he realizes he's half-staring at her while he sorts through his thoughts and focuses, slightly, one thumb rubbing over her hand like it'll reassure her while he chooses where to start with that.]
I - [Huff.] Didn't wanna be around anyone. Kinda. Only wanted to...
[He trails off and shrugs with the shoulder not attached to the hand gripping her. Only wanted to be around the people his mask showed him.]
Got real damn paranoid about everyone - [Not else, because that lumps her in with the everyone else and that's not true and he already told her that. And also because they weren't real, and she is] - here.
[A beat where he tries to explain, but showing is always easier and the next moment has him pulling out his tiny bottle of pills. Though he doesn't let go of the bottle. Just holds it up.]
[Her eyes flick from his face to the bottle and back, a little oh of recognition curling up from her throat as it clicks into place. The stroking of his thumb is a comfort but her hand's been on his face for what feels like a very long time so she lowers it, slowly, keeping hold of his hand as she does.]
Arm's getting tired.
[Not because she doesn't want to be touching him, and she hopes that comes across. Rests her hand on her knee with his on top of it and traces little fingertip circles over his knuckles with her other hand.]
Guess that explains going from one extreme to the other like that. And I'm glad. It's good you got help.
[A pause, then, because even with the minor stuff she sometimes worries he'll mistake concern for pity and have a tantrum, but she's not so worried she won't ask.]
[There's a little nod of acceptance when she says that and doesn't pull her hand away from his, though even if she tried to he'd, well, try to let it happen. He still watches as she trails her fingers over his hand, nods along again, trying to figure out how it must've been from the other side of the wreck. Probably something like whiplash except three times over, and once again there's that guilty shameful feeling that claws at his chest and sinks his shoulders.]
Seeing someone.
[Listlessly repeated but then he actually hears it and flicks his eyes up to meet hers, question in it. Seeing someone? Though regardless of what she means - seeing people from the mask, getting help, in an alliance or dating or whatever - the answer is no. So he shakes his head.]
[Frown. That's not good, and part of her wants to ask which asshole in medbay decided it was enough to throw pills at him and leave it at that - doctors, she fucking hates them - but that's really not the point. Moving her hand over his seems a safe enough kind of contact for now, so she just... keeps doing it as she talks.]
Hn. I know there must have been some pretty big advances, but back in my day - [and yes, she's aware of how silly that sounds, which is exactly whey she says it with such a tone of self-mockery] - they were all about how it wasn't enough just to take the medication, you had to work through it too. Therapy and shit.
[Not that it's always shit. It's probably a lot more helpful if you don't have to lie.]
[It's not like he'd remember anyway, and in fact he was probably supposed to check in and... didn't. (Dumbass.) Hey, they work, so why bother when there's way too much work to do down here to waste time with it. The combination of contact and the way the phrase and the way she phrases it clash is enough to get a small, amused huff out of him.
Of course then she drops the word "therapy" and the response is predictably knee-jerk.]
No way.
[There's no heat in it and no clenching of his hand or anything, because it's Heder and was couched in fact, but he couldn't look more like a grumpy stubborn old man right now.]
[Oh, Ned, sorry about the laughter but that's what happens, because that reaction's basically what she expected.]
I know. And I'm not gonna lie to you, it sucks, but they always told me that pills fix the symptoms, not the cause. Which I'm sure you're thinking is good enough, but think about where we are. What if something happens in medbay and you can't get more? You really wanna relapse and have withdrawals on top of it?
[By the end of that she's gone from joking right through to earnest, lacing her fingers through his, fingers on the other hand curled around his wrist. Pleading in her posture - please, please listen to me.]
[Strangely enough, her laughter doesn't do anything but relax him somewhat - he's expecting it to be followed up with a joke or sarcasm or snark, the topic to be brushed upon and moved right over or at the very least danced around for a while. So as it slides into something real and earnest his expression comes along for the ride. A vaguely, barely expectant and amused look and then onward to carefully blank but not suspicious. And then to where he's removing himself from the problem and looking at it factually, eyes half glazed over and one side of his jaw tight in thought.
For all of the facts present the conclusion ends up being: as many ways as he tries to circle it, find the loophole, can come up with enough counterarguments to shut her down - she's right. But more than the fact that she's right is the fact that she's right, and damn it all, he cares about the second part just as much.
After nearly a minute of spacing out he looks up at her.]
No.
[He doesn't want to relapse and get withdrawals, no. Of course that's not agreement with anything other than the fact that, yes, relapsing would suck. And what she's saying makes sense - hell, she's totally right. He wants to listen, even, would love nothing better to go to therapy except for the part where he wouldn't and of course can't lie to her about the lengths he'd go to Not Go.]
Be willin' risk it, though.
[He does not want to blab everything to a stranger even more than he despises any sort of risk.]
[That's a really, really long almost-minute. From where she's sitting, at least. And when he says no there's a flutter, a little bubble of hope that he bursts almost immediately.]
Oh.
[She's not going to leave it at that, no way, but something about the way he says it tells her she's already lost this fight. Which means that she's always going to be one missed dose from having him treat her like she's going to turn on him at any second, that she's probably never going to be able to touch him suddenly and just for the pleasure of touching him without risking an odd, if not openly hostile reaction. She uncurls her hand from around his wrist, tucks her hair behind her ear as she looks away and her fingers threaded through his go loose. Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet.]
Have you ever tried it? It's not - they don't try and make you talk about stuff you don't want to. And it's -
[a hitch in her voice, there - just a tiny one, and he better be okay with her not looking at him because if she looks at him she really is going to cry]
it might be the difference between getting by and getting better.
[There's a but, though, and he presses his lips into a tight line while he decides whether to say it or not. Doesn't like talking in general, hates talking about the things he'd surely have to talk about in fucking therapy, but he also doesn't like the way she pulls back and in, away from him. He has to hold himself back from clinging too hard in response or pulling her in, because that's the first step of a vicious cycle that is way too familiar (in the short term might freak her out, too, and she shouldn't have to worry about this when there's so much else to worry over).
And he's already thought it - this is something that happens over and over so it's obviously him - so it's either try to fix it or shut himself out from everyone. So he lets out a long, slow sigh, moves his head like he's going to scrub at his face but his hand doesn't budge. Yeah, getting better would be. Good.]
...what if I try it, once.
[It's not really the answer he's waiting on so much as her response to the question.]
[She tips her face back towards him, inclining her head even if she still can't quite look at him. Tightens her fingers almost imperceptibly against his even as her other hand picks nervously at the fabric of her jeans.]
S'all I can ask for. That you try.
[Really try, she thinks, because she's having mental images of him with his arms folded, tapping a foot and staring down whoever draws the short straw. Then again, she's got no room to criticize there, and she actually gives a rueful little laugh.]
You couldn't do worse than I did my first time, anyway. But it'd -
[And she does force herself to look at him then, trying to keep her expression steady instead of needy, almost desperate.]
[Better. She comes back and even if he registers the picking, somewhere, it's overridden with the satisfaction that she liked that answer. There's a minuscule motion of his chin sideways and he suddenly wants to hear her talk about her first time, but she continues and he files it away and spends a long moment looking back. Trying it, then. It's a deal. He nods once, sharp, resists the urge to shake her hand in his because he thinks she'll get huffy over that. His wrist turns like he's about to, regardless, so he starts speaking as a distraction.]
How was your -
[Wait. His mouth twitches down as the sudden question of who her first therapist was comes to mind again (and he wonders if it was Dr. Crane), but then it makes him wonder the question he really should've thought of in the first place.]
Who the hell is the therapist - [New thought.] Uh. There's a therapist here, right.
[He's looking at her like "we better not have just had that entire conversation for no damn reason".]
[She's actually about to tell him about her first time - fresh out of Silent Hill, full of fear and hurt and anger and refusing to talk to anyone because when she tried they'd put her on anti-psychotics and how disastrously it had ended, but then he asks something else entirely and she can't help but laugh - a little sadly - at the fact that he apparently thinks she'd put him through that degree of wheedling for nothing.]
Jenna. It's Jenna. There might be others, I don't know. I saw Dr. Crane for a while, but...
[but he got weird, and then that Blake guy knew about him and none of it was good]
he's gone. But it means the ship doesn't have a one-psychologist limit, I guess.
[Said more so that she knows he heard her, because even he realizes he's doing that thing where he sinks a little too far into a spiral of thoughts and isn't paying enough attention to everything happening in the real world or whatever. But once he's done sifting through it - and back to rubbing his thumb over her knuckles without realizing, just a slow stable back-and-forth - he's got a plan and the look she gets is pretty damn businesslike.]
And ya like her.
[As a therapist, he means, because he's making the assumption that Heather is now seeing Jenna.]
[Unfortunately that assumption passes her right by. She's too interested in the way the gentle movement of his thumb over her knuckles contrasts with the look on his face to pick up on that implication.]
I like her a lot. She was the first person here I felt like I could trust. Can trust. She'd never repeat anything you said to her, I'm sure of it. Or judge you, anything like that.
[And yeah, somewhere there's a little spark of recognition that says "hey, Heather, you might be overselling this a little", but it's drowned out by the hope that he might see it through and get back to his old self.]
[That very last thing gets her a flick of his eyes up to the ceiling and a mockery of a chastising rap of his thumb atop one of her knuckles.]
Ain't worried about her judgin' me.
[Please. There are precious few people whose approval he cares about, and as soon as his eyes come back down to meet hers he nearly says that, too. And then he realizes it might be kind of obvious anyway, tilts his head and shrugs with that shoulder in an odd little sideways nod of concession. Worried about Heather judging him? Yes. Other than shrugging that admittance he's not sure how to say it - or rather, he is, but she wouldn't understand it and at the thought he turns his head to settle his gaze on the bike.]
[That sharp tap of his thumb is so familiar, so like something he'd have done in the time she can't help thinking of as before, and in her head she's already reacting in kind - nudging his side with an elbow, rolling her eyes and asking why the hell he's so averse to talking to someone if he doesn't care what they think - before she remembers it's not like that anymore and reins it in. Inclines her head towards him instead and wonders over that look of his.]
So you'll go, then. You'll see her and you'll really try.
[It's not often that she's this earnest with people. Honest, yes, but this is something else, and he brings it out in her more than anyone else she knows. Especially now, when she's hurt and worried and missing him all over again, and she wonders if he realizes -
right up until she follows his line of sight. Well, she did pretty well to hold his attention that long anyway.]
I should've done this the other way around. Said you could have the bike if you went to therapy. I could have got at least two sessions.
[It comes out, slow and thoughtful, but not reluctant. Slow because he's thinking and because he could've sworn he already agreed to it, only to realize that the decision was only made in his head and never stated. His attention comes back to her quick enough once she starts speaking in trades, though the way he's facing has it so that he can keep an eye on both her and the bike. It's only then that the realization of how serious she's taking this hits. She's not pleading, but there's something in it that flirts with desperation and it makes him angry with himself all over again, somewhere low and hurting in his chest. He turns to her and lets go of her hand and scowls at how fucked up it is that that is now the admission of trust, the demonstration of care.]
Don't - [Right, don't tell her what to do. Inward huff, outward huff, and a glance over at the bike as his posture suddenly goes to awkward.] Maybe, but uh. I'll go. Yeah.
[This lip-chewing moment brought to you by whatever the Dutch word for chapstick is.]
Need to give ya yours.
[Her gift, that is. Though after something like a goddamned bike he's afraid she'll find his lacking.]
[Lightly, like it's mean to be a joke. And it is, mostly, except for the tiny worry that he actually does think that, and that's what the don't means. As soon as she's said it she sort of regrets it, because if that's not what he meant it might be kind of offensive and if it is it might be kind of upsetting anyway, but. Well. It's out now. On her knee, her hand curls in on itself. It's good that he could take his hand away like that, right? Normal. Something to be glad for.
Her eyebrows raise and then lower in concern when he continues. He'd mentioned something before, but she hadn't really expected anything to happen about it, given the state he was in. This could be awkward.]
No rush.
[No, that sounds like she doesn't care. Ugh.]
I mean, I know that's gotta be hard for you right now...
[While he doesn't actually say "uh...?" his expression betrays him - and even if it didn't the sudden look between her, bike, her - that might do it. It's a joke he gets, once he checks, but not a joke he likes. Not that he likes most jokes but that one hits a bit too close to them.
No rush, she says. As soon as she says it he jerks toward her chin-first and narrows his eyes, trying to find a way out of it or to postpone it and it's right there to take and the other part of him, the protective part, wants to shake her and tell her to get back to being a bitch to him for their own good. And he doesn't do that, but he ends up tearing a hand through his hair and spitting out one word that means ten different things, half of them contradicting one another.]
No. Quit doin' -
[What would be great is a cigarette but instead he simply gets jittery and loses that thread of thought, almost immediately. Licks his lips and sighs and goes back to the original statement.]
I need to.
[Despite the desire to get up and pace out everything he stays still and stares at her to see if she gets it, or at least some of it. He needs to, because it's one little piece involved in fixing this mess, yes, but he's not sure what else to go on.]
[Oh, hell. None of this is turning out how she wanted, and for a moment she closes her eyes and just gives a tiny shake of her head.]
You're right. Sorry. I just -
[wanted to see him happy. Not just for him to be happy, which at least would be respectable, but selfishly wanted to see it, and maybe find a moment or two to pretend everything was okay. She drags a slow breath in and a firm huff out, opens her eyes and nods at him.]
Okay. Let's do this.
[Another time she'd wink at him or pump her fist, make a joke of the weird intensity of it, but she's really not up to it. Can't paint a layer of cockiness and bravado over it, so what he gets is raw and awkward sincerity. If he needs it, then yes. Of course.]
[Some weird part of him wants to flail over her apology and shut it down, no, don't be sorry, he's the one that should be, right. But other than a fleeting moment of looking completely open - his worries and reservations and that intense wanting all tangled up and laid right out for her observation - a slip - he doesn't react to her apology. Shuts it down once he realizes what is happening and focuses on the next part, that next step. Giving it away.
He breathes in and nods, shoots his hand out to grip the bike and in an effort to change the mood he shifts his focus there, too.]
Could ride it. Up.
[By that he means ride them up. Back home he can manage groceries and passengers with one hand clasped on an umbrella through rush hour traffic in the dripping rain, he's sure he can give them both a lift in a deserted ship.]
[It takes her a second, but when she catches his meaning she brightens.]
Yeah?
[And then there's a moment where she looks from him to the bike and back again because there are a whole bunch of reasons it's a terrible idea. She doesn't even like being in a car driven by someone else, let alone being on a bike he's never ridden before and hasn't had a chance to get used to and she can think of about five ways off the top of her head it could get weird, but... fuck it. She wants to help, she wants to see him ride the bike, and no matter how unhelpful it might be right now she wants to be close to him. So she nods, gives him a lopsided smile and tweaks at his collar like it's crooked.
[Though even as he grunts the reassurance she's looking at the bike and him and for whatever reason he nearly opens his mouth to brag about that one time he dodged through traffic during a snowfall with Lux and a few pairs of ice skates jamming his tires - at that same time he halfway catches himself (what was that thought even) and she reaches out. Speaks up, and it's the best thing he's heard in days. At the very least. Best not to think about it, he just sits up, stands and nearly yanks her along with his enthusiasm.
And despite how much is wrong, with everything, the idea of a bike ride with her along is enough to clear all of that to side for a fleeting moment. Bike ride. The two of them and hehasabikeholyshityesbikes. Before he knows it he's throwing a leg across and settling like it was made for him - and then he grips it with his other hand, looks up at her at the same time he realizes it was made for him - and for just that second looks like a kid in a toy shop.
Of course then it's all business and nodding to the front of him as he stands over it, not jumping up and down on the balls of his feet but that same sort of air of excited impatience is down there somewhere, despite how calm he tries to come across and the layers of stoicism he slaps over it. In this case it's harder to hide, the idea that she should be excited too colliding with his genuine joy over sitting on a bike for the first time in nearly a year. Kind of a whiplash and he knows everything he just ignored will catch up to them but he's selfish and he wants this moment.]
[He's not fooling her. It doesn't matter how brief that look of joy is, it's enough to light her up in answer because that right there - despite the mask and the fights and her tears and anger and his greed and paranoia and how fucked it all is - that look is everything she wanted. And he's a picture on it, the smile on his face and those long, long legs that she'd been a little worried about because she'd had to communicate his height with guesses and a hand held over her head in approximation. It's perfect. He might hide all his feelings behind a stony expression but it's just another variation of what she does with anger and snark, and right now she's definitely not buying what he's selling.
She settles in front of him with a complete lack of elegance, laughing at the skippity-hop movement she has to make to do so and the fact that she's really got no idea what she's doing.]
Alright, we good?
[Am I doing this right is what she means, but she's at least temporarily pleased enough not to think on that any further and listen to all the different ways in which the answer is no.]
[Has she ever ridden on a bike as a passenger? It'd kind of suck if she fell off.]
Don't fall off.
[Best instructions. If he wasn't so excited and impatient about trying it out he'd ask if she had. Still, just in case, he starts off slowly (for him) and that phrase about it being easy to ride a bike again is very true. And if she does slip he'll tug her to him and he probably should do that anyway, but there's the nagging worry that it'll lead to another embarrassing case where he has to work to let go. So all he does is start off, make sure she's not going anywhere, but after he thinks it's good he starts working up to a decent clip despite the fact that he'll have to slow down for the lift.]
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After a moment he realizes he's half-staring at her while he sorts through his thoughts and focuses, slightly, one thumb rubbing over her hand like it'll reassure her while he chooses where to start with that.]
I - [Huff.] Didn't wanna be around anyone. Kinda. Only wanted to...
[He trails off and shrugs with the shoulder not attached to the hand gripping her. Only wanted to be around the people his mask showed him.]
Got real damn paranoid about everyone - [Not else, because that lumps her in with the everyone else and that's not true and he already told her that. And also because they weren't real, and she is] - here.
[A beat where he tries to explain, but showing is always easier and the next moment has him pulling out his tiny bottle of pills. Though he doesn't let go of the bottle. Just holds it up.]
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Arm's getting tired.
[Not because she doesn't want to be touching him, and she hopes that comes across. Rests her hand on her knee with his on top of it and traces little fingertip circles over his knuckles with her other hand.]
Guess that explains going from one extreme to the other like that. And I'm glad. It's good you got help.
[A pause, then, because even with the minor stuff she sometimes worries he'll mistake concern for pity and have a tantrum, but she's not so worried she won't ask.]
Are you seeing someone?
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Seeing someone.
[Listlessly repeated but then he actually hears it and flicks his eyes up to meet hers, question in it. Seeing someone? Though regardless of what she means - seeing people from the mask, getting help, in an alliance or dating or whatever - the answer is no. So he shakes his head.]
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Hn. I know there must have been some pretty big advances, but back in my day - [and yes, she's aware of how silly that sounds, which is exactly whey she says it with such a tone of self-mockery] - they were all about how it wasn't enough just to take the medication, you had to work through it too. Therapy and shit.
[Not that it's always shit. It's probably a lot more helpful if you don't have to lie.]
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Of course then she drops the word "therapy" and the response is predictably knee-jerk.]
No way.
[There's no heat in it and no clenching of his hand or anything, because it's Heder and was couched in fact, but he couldn't look more like a grumpy stubborn old man right now.]
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I know. And I'm not gonna lie to you, it sucks, but they always told me that pills fix the symptoms, not the cause. Which I'm sure you're thinking is good enough, but think about where we are. What if something happens in medbay and you can't get more? You really wanna relapse and have withdrawals on top of it?
[By the end of that she's gone from joking right through to earnest, lacing her fingers through his, fingers on the other hand curled around his wrist. Pleading in her posture - please, please listen to me.]
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For all of the facts present the conclusion ends up being: as many ways as he tries to circle it, find the loophole, can come up with enough counterarguments to shut her down - she's right. But more than the fact that she's right is the fact that she's right, and damn it all, he cares about the second part just as much.
After nearly a minute of spacing out he looks up at her.]
No.
[He doesn't want to relapse and get withdrawals, no. Of course that's not agreement with anything other than the fact that, yes, relapsing would suck. And what she's saying makes sense - hell, she's totally right. He wants to listen, even, would love nothing better to go to therapy except for the part where he wouldn't and of course can't lie to her about the lengths he'd go to Not Go.]
Be willin' risk it, though.
[He does not want to blab everything to a stranger even more than he despises any sort of risk.]
no subject
Oh.
[She's not going to leave it at that, no way, but something about the way he says it tells her she's already lost this fight. Which means that she's always going to be one missed dose from having him treat her like she's going to turn on him at any second, that she's probably never going to be able to touch him suddenly and just for the pleasure of touching him without risking an odd, if not openly hostile reaction. She uncurls her hand from around his wrist, tucks her hair behind her ear as she looks away and her fingers threaded through his go loose. Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet.]
Have you ever tried it? It's not - they don't try and make you talk about stuff you don't want to. And it's -
[a hitch in her voice, there - just a tiny one, and he better be okay with her not looking at him because if she looks at him she really is going to cry]
it might be the difference between getting by and getting better.
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[There's a but, though, and he presses his lips into a tight line while he decides whether to say it or not. Doesn't like talking in general, hates talking about the things he'd surely have to talk about in fucking therapy, but he also doesn't like the way she pulls back and in, away from him. He has to hold himself back from clinging too hard in response or pulling her in, because that's the first step of a vicious cycle that is way too familiar (in the short term might freak her out, too, and she shouldn't have to worry about this when there's so much else to worry over).
And he's already thought it - this is something that happens over and over so it's obviously him - so it's either try to fix it or shut himself out from everyone. So he lets out a long, slow sigh, moves his head like he's going to scrub at his face but his hand doesn't budge. Yeah, getting better would be. Good.]
...what if I try it, once.
[It's not really the answer he's waiting on so much as her response to the question.]
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S'all I can ask for. That you try.
[Really try, she thinks, because she's having mental images of him with his arms folded, tapping a foot and staring down whoever draws the short straw. Then again, she's got no room to criticize there, and she actually gives a rueful little laugh.]
You couldn't do worse than I did my first time, anyway. But it'd -
[And she does force herself to look at him then, trying to keep her expression steady instead of needy, almost desperate.]
It'd mean a lot to me if you did.
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How was your -
[Wait. His mouth twitches down as the sudden question of who her first therapist was comes to mind again (and he wonders if it was Dr. Crane), but then it makes him wonder the question he really should've thought of in the first place.]
Who the hell is the therapist - [New thought.] Uh. There's a therapist here, right.
[He's looking at her like "we better not have just had that entire conversation for no damn reason".]
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Jenna. It's Jenna. There might be others, I don't know. I saw Dr. Crane for a while, but...
[but he got weird, and then that Blake guy knew about him and none of it was good]
he's gone. But it means the ship doesn't have a one-psychologist limit, I guess.
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[Said more so that she knows he heard her, because even he realizes he's doing that thing where he sinks a little too far into a spiral of thoughts and isn't paying enough attention to everything happening in the real world or whatever. But once he's done sifting through it - and back to rubbing his thumb over her knuckles without realizing, just a slow stable back-and-forth - he's got a plan and the look she gets is pretty damn businesslike.]
And ya like her.
[As a therapist, he means, because he's making the assumption that Heather is now seeing Jenna.]
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I like her a lot. She was the first person here I felt like I could trust. Can trust. She'd never repeat anything you said to her, I'm sure of it. Or judge you, anything like that.
[And yeah, somewhere there's a little spark of recognition that says "hey, Heather, you might be overselling this a little", but it's drowned out by the hope that he might see it through and get back to his old self.]
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Ain't worried about her judgin' me.
[Please. There are precious few people whose approval he cares about, and as soon as his eyes come back down to meet hers he nearly says that, too. And then he realizes it might be kind of obvious anyway, tilts his head and shrugs with that shoulder in an odd little sideways nod of concession. Worried about Heather judging him? Yes. Other than shrugging that admittance he's not sure how to say it - or rather, he is, but she wouldn't understand it and at the thought he turns his head to settle his gaze on the bike.]
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So you'll go, then. You'll see her and you'll really try.
[It's not often that she's this earnest with people. Honest, yes, but this is something else, and he brings it out in her more than anyone else she knows. Especially now, when she's hurt and worried and missing him all over again, and she wonders if he realizes -
right up until she follows his line of sight. Well, she did pretty well to hold his attention that long anyway.]
I should've done this the other way around. Said you could have the bike if you went to therapy. I could have got at least two sessions.
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[It comes out, slow and thoughtful, but not reluctant. Slow because he's thinking and because he could've sworn he already agreed to it, only to realize that the decision was only made in his head and never stated. His attention comes back to her quick enough once she starts speaking in trades, though the way he's facing has it so that he can keep an eye on both her and the bike. It's only then that the realization of how serious she's taking this hits. She's not pleading, but there's something in it that flirts with desperation and it makes him angry with himself all over again, somewhere low and hurting in his chest. He turns to her and lets go of her hand and scowls at how fucked up it is that that is now the admission of trust, the demonstration of care.]
Don't - [Right, don't tell her what to do. Inward huff, outward huff, and a glance over at the bike as his posture suddenly goes to awkward.] Maybe, but uh. I'll go. Yeah.
[This lip-chewing moment brought to you by whatever the Dutch word for chapstick is.]
Need to give ya yours.
[Her gift, that is. Though after something like a goddamned bike he's afraid she'll find his lacking.]
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[Lightly, like it's mean to be a joke. And it is, mostly, except for the tiny worry that he actually does think that, and that's what the don't means. As soon as she's said it she sort of regrets it, because if that's not what he meant it might be kind of offensive and if it is it might be kind of upsetting anyway, but. Well. It's out now. On her knee, her hand curls in on itself. It's good that he could take his hand away like that, right? Normal. Something to be glad for.
Her eyebrows raise and then lower in concern when he continues. He'd mentioned something before, but she hadn't really expected anything to happen about it, given the state he was in. This could be awkward.]
No rush.
[No, that sounds like she doesn't care. Ugh.]
I mean, I know that's gotta be hard for you right now...
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No rush, she says. As soon as she says it he jerks toward her chin-first and narrows his eyes, trying to find a way out of it or to postpone it and it's right there to take and the other part of him, the protective part, wants to shake her and tell her to get back to being a bitch to him for their own good. And he doesn't do that, but he ends up tearing a hand through his hair and spitting out one word that means ten different things, half of them contradicting one another.]
No. Quit doin' -
[What would be great is a cigarette but instead he simply gets jittery and loses that thread of thought, almost immediately. Licks his lips and sighs and goes back to the original statement.]
I need to.
[Despite the desire to get up and pace out everything he stays still and stares at her to see if she gets it, or at least some of it. He needs to, because it's one little piece involved in fixing this mess, yes, but he's not sure what else to go on.]
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You're right. Sorry. I just -
[wanted to see him happy. Not just for him to be happy, which at least would be respectable, but selfishly wanted to see it, and maybe find a moment or two to pretend everything was okay. She drags a slow breath in and a firm huff out, opens her eyes and nods at him.]
Okay. Let's do this.
[Another time she'd wink at him or pump her fist, make a joke of the weird intensity of it, but she's really not up to it. Can't paint a layer of cockiness and bravado over it, so what he gets is raw and awkward sincerity. If he needs it, then yes. Of course.]
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He breathes in and nods, shoots his hand out to grip the bike and in an effort to change the mood he shifts his focus there, too.]
Could ride it. Up.
[By that he means ride them up. Back home he can manage groceries and passengers with one hand clasped on an umbrella through rush hour traffic in the dripping rain, he's sure he can give them both a lift in a deserted ship.]
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Yeah?
[And then there's a moment where she looks from him to the bike and back again because there are a whole bunch of reasons it's a terrible idea. She doesn't even like being in a car driven by someone else, let alone being on a bike he's never ridden before and hasn't had a chance to get used to and she can think of about five ways off the top of her head it could get weird, but... fuck it. She wants to help, she wants to see him ride the bike, and no matter how unhelpful it might be right now she wants to be close to him. So she nods, gives him a lopsided smile and tweaks at his collar like it's crooked.
It isn't.]
I'd love that.
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[Though even as he grunts the reassurance she's looking at the bike and him and for whatever reason he nearly opens his mouth to brag about that one time he dodged through traffic during a snowfall with Lux and a few pairs of ice skates jamming his tires - at that same time he halfway catches himself (what was that thought even) and she reaches out. Speaks up, and it's the best thing he's heard in days. At the very least. Best not to think about it, he just sits up, stands and nearly yanks her along with his enthusiasm.
And despite how much is wrong, with everything, the idea of a bike ride with her along is enough to clear all of that to side for a fleeting moment. Bike ride. The two of them and hehasabikeholyshityesbikes. Before he knows it he's throwing a leg across and settling like it was made for him - and then he grips it with his other hand, looks up at her at the same time he realizes it was made for him - and for just that second looks like a kid in a toy shop.
Of course then it's all business and nodding to the front of him as he stands over it, not jumping up and down on the balls of his feet but that same sort of air of excited impatience is down there somewhere, despite how calm he tries to come across and the layers of stoicism he slaps over it. In this case it's harder to hide, the idea that she should be excited too colliding with his genuine joy over sitting on a bike for the first time in nearly a year. Kind of a whiplash and he knows everything he just ignored will catch up to them but he's selfish and he wants this moment.]
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She settles in front of him with a complete lack of elegance, laughing at the skippity-hop movement she has to make to do so and the fact that she's really got no idea what she's doing.]
Alright, we good?
[Am I doing this right is what she means, but she's at least temporarily pleased enough not to think on that any further and listen to all the different ways in which the answer is no.]
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[Has she ever ridden on a bike as a passenger? It'd kind of suck if she fell off.]
Don't fall off.
[Best instructions. If he wasn't so excited and impatient about trying it out he'd ask if she had. Still, just in case, he starts off slowly (for him) and that phrase about it being easy to ride a bike again is very true. And if she does slip he'll tug her to him and he probably should do that anyway, but there's the nagging worry that it'll lead to another embarrassing case where he has to work to let go. So all he does is start off, make sure she's not going anywhere, but after he thinks it's good he starts working up to a decent clip despite the fact that he'll have to slow down for the lift.]
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