She feels her heart twist. Does he need her? Anyone could have done this for him. Most people here would help a stranger. And he needed her, he wouldn't have cast her aside so easily.
Jill lets go of his hand so that she can use both of hers to carefully peek under the towel. It's a mess of blood and hair, but maybe she can just make out where the gash is.
He can't even argue, just wincing as she pulls back the towel, his blood-matted bangs peeling from the wound. It's shallow but long, more interested in bleeding than anything.
The urge to comfort him is overwhelming. She does her best to wipe his hair away from the wound before pressing the towel back down and she thinks if things were different she would have pressed a kiss to his head and held him closer.
"I'll always help you where I can, Clive," she reminds him, though it would be easy to forget with how the past month has gone. "I don't hate you."
Far from it. She hates what he did to her, but her love for him hasn't gone anywhere.
An odd calm settles on him the longer he sits there, the stress of crossing the city on his own two feet eased, but her words strike a particular chord within him that has him sinking into deeper relief –– punctuated, obviously, by a silent wince as the pressure returns.
"When I remember having my brand removed," he says, "I don't remember most of the pain. I just remember you."
She remembers it well. He'd been in agony, his face raw, but she had cherished the time together. Taking care of him. Her chest heaves with the deep breath that comes with the memory of him simply wanting the comfort of her company.
She can't rob him of that. She doesn't want to rob herself of it, either.
"So much has happened since then," she says quietly. She can't help but let a hand fall to the back of his neck, supporting some of the weight of his head, thumb brushing back and forth over his skin out of habit.
"At least this scar will be hidden entirely by your hair."
For a moment, he can pretend nothing has changed between them: he's back in the hat time, where the grief of Cid's passing has dulled, the Hideaway is thriving again anew, and their work has continued in cities and villages alike across the continent. They're together, if not in practice, then in heart and mindset.
Weren't they? Was that too little for her?
He gazes up at her, exhausted, grateful for this much. His nod is so small it could be missed.
"Another for the collection just the same. Should it be stitched?"
He looks so miserable, tired and bloody. It tugs at her heart. Instead of meeting his eyes, she gingerly peeks at his wound again, the white towel bright red where it's been trying to stop the bleeding.
"I was hoping to avoid that, but this bleeding is stubborn," she mutters, towel pressing to it again. "I lack Tarja's supplies, but I do have a needle and thread if you're willing."
She should maybe purchase one of those medical kits she's seen in the shops. Jill would love for this to be the last time she needs to stitch Clive up, but she knows him too well. It will never end.
"Then I need you to hold this," she tells him, taking his hand and pressing it to the towel. "Stay still. I'll be right back, Clive."
She'll need water, more towels, and to find her needle and thread. It's a good thing she decided to embroider little gifts for Dion and P.
He takes it, sure he's not going anywhere, clutching the towel to his head. He ponders, vaguely, if it's one he used just weeks ago, and how foreign that feels, but he's too tired to think on it long.
One blue eye follows her from room to room, the towel dropped over half his face, at least until it lands on Torgal, watching quietly from the couch. Calmer, he notes.
She collects what she needs, quick, but not panicked. It does look worse than it is, and when she catches a glimpse of herself she's startled by how much of his blood has gotten smeared on her nightgown. Again, it looks worse than it truly is, and Jill returns to Clive to begin her work.
"It looks clean, as far as I can tell," Jill tells him as she carefully moves his hand away, taking over. She uses the towel to push his hair back and better examine the bleeding. "I won't take long. Just stay as steady as possible."
It really is like that those agonizing days when she'd peel his bandages from his raw flesh, changing them once they were dirty. She hated hurting him then, and she takes no pleasure in it now as she threads her needle to begin pulling his skin back together.
"It had sharp claws," he remarks, looking back up at her. Rarely does he think that's a blessing, but it makes for cleaner cuts, at least. It had taken him a second to realize he'd even been caught, a fraction of an inch to short on a dodge.
He stays still, practiced and calm. There were enough days without any sort of numbing poultice or swigs of drink that it doesn't bother him terribly now, the pain something he's sat through time and time again.
Still, there's a flinch here or there, the tremble of muscle under sweat-slick skin.
Without thinking, he reaches out to brace a hand on the outside of her thigh.
"And poor aim. You could have ended up matching Gav," she says, focused on her task but not so much that his touch to her leg doesn't burn like a brand. She hesitates for a moment, but then simply carries on. He can hold onto her if he must, to get through this.
"Almost, Clive. Almost. You know this is the worst part." Pinching the skin together when it's already tired and sore.
She hums in soft affirmation. She doesn't think she'd have the strength to keep her distance if he'd lost an eye. This is already crossing so many lines in the sand.
Jill's quiet, nimble fingers finishing up the job, the wound still weeping but that's a considerable improvement thus far.
"Better," she sighs, rubbing her cheek on her shoulder to free it from a few strands of her hair. Her hands are a mess even after she uses a clean part of the towel to wipe them.
He looks up at her, appreciation apparent on his face.
"Much improved," he replies. Not great, and the burn of tugged flesh is an unpleasant complement to the throbbing in his skull, but it's manageable. He chooses not to think of what happens when the itch kicks in. "Thank you."
And then, realizing where his hand is, he lets his touch fall away slow and subtle as he can. Like she wouldn't have noticed.
He gets a brief smile, because she is glad to have helped. To have been useful. When his hand leaves her, she clears her throat and goes for the bowl of warm water and a clean towel she has set on the table.
Once, she would have straddled his thigh or fit herself between his knees to clean his face. Instead, she dampens the towel and steps around him.
Still, the fingertips that tip his chin upwards so that she can see his bloodied face are tender with their touch. She looks into the eyes of the person she loves with her whole heart, tries to search for something she doesn't know how to name, swallows hard, and steels herself so she can begin wiping his face clean.
She can't be emotional now.
"Close your eyes," she says quietly. She needs to wipe around them. And this is all easier when he's not looking at her and making her heart ache.
He could tell her it's fine, he can clean himself up, but he doesn't. He's selfish, and he misses her, and he's too tired to resist. So he does as she asks, moving as she wants, gazing up at her. Searching her face, too. He's not sure what for. Warmth, under that flicker of a smile? A sign?
He can just repeat:
"Thank you, Jill."
He closes his eyes, dark lashes settling against his bloodied cheeks, bangs wild and damp around his face.
"You were already exhausted this morning. You can't do that, Clive. Go out when you're not at your best," she murmurs. He can't put her in this position, of wanting to comfort him. Of looking down at his lips and wanting to kiss him despite the blood.
She's as gentle as can be, starting from his hairline, smoothing his hair back. With the blood, it obeys for once, and she almost finds it funny.
“I don’t sleep if I don’t exhaust myself,” he murmurs. She knows that — she must know — but he’s too tired to find a colder excuse. “But this was a step too far, I agree.”
The tenderness of her touch makes him want to sob.
Jill gently drags the towel over his cheek, turning her head to look at Torgal. His ears are up and attentive, but his head is resting on his giant paws, eyes closed. Dozing peacefully.
"You will tonight." At least. Torgal looks like he has no intention of pacing until the sun rises.
She wonders if Clive misses their bed. This apartment. She wants to ask, but any answer will hurt, won't it? Nothing had to change, but he made a choice.
"I'll get you some water to drink once I finish with your face."
"A relief," he admits, and he doesn't even feel like he's intruding, even if he is. Maybe this was more his apartment than he ever let himself admit; it certainly is more than the hat box he sleeps in and keeps his things, just a mattress bent up the wall so the door can still open, and the busted-up loft bed that Torgal uses as a chew toy.
If he never saw the inside of that room again, he'd be pleased.
"You didn't like when I suggested you run me through... but even if you did, I would still do this for you," she says. Her heart is stronger than her head. "Call it kindness if you will."
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He barely fits on the couch, anyway.
She feels her heart twist. Does he need her? Anyone could have done this for him. Most people here would help a stranger. And he needed her, he wouldn't have cast her aside so easily.
Jill lets go of his hand so that she can use both of hers to carefully peek under the towel. It's a mess of blood and hair, but maybe she can just make out where the gash is.
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He can't even argue, just wincing as she pulls back the towel, his blood-matted bangs peeling from the wound. It's shallow but long, more interested in bleeding than anything.
"Thank you."
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"I'll always help you where I can, Clive," she reminds him, though it would be easy to forget with how the past month has gone. "I don't hate you."
Far from it. She hates what he did to her, but her love for him hasn't gone anywhere.
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"When I remember having my brand removed," he says, "I don't remember most of the pain. I just remember you."
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She can't rob him of that. She doesn't want to rob herself of it, either.
"So much has happened since then," she says quietly. She can't help but let a hand fall to the back of his neck, supporting some of the weight of his head, thumb brushing back and forth over his skin out of habit.
"At least this scar will be hidden entirely by your hair."
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Weren't they? Was that too little for her?
He gazes up at her, exhausted, grateful for this much. His nod is so small it could be missed.
"Another for the collection just the same. Should it be stitched?"
He can do that himself if he needs to.
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"I was hoping to avoid that, but this bleeding is stubborn," she mutters, towel pressing to it again. "I lack Tarja's supplies, but I do have a needle and thread if you're willing."
She does have a steady hand, at least.
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There are much worse sensations in his line of work than being stitched by a decent practised hand. Not the first time she'll have done it, either.
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"Then I need you to hold this," she tells him, taking his hand and pressing it to the towel. "Stay still. I'll be right back, Clive."
She'll need water, more towels, and to find her needle and thread. It's a good thing she decided to embroider little gifts for Dion and P.
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One blue eye follows her from room to room, the towel dropped over half his face, at least until it lands on Torgal, watching quietly from the couch. Calmer, he notes.
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"It looks clean, as far as I can tell," Jill tells him as she carefully moves his hand away, taking over. She uses the towel to push his hair back and better examine the bleeding. "I won't take long. Just stay as steady as possible."
It really is like that those agonizing days when she'd peel his bandages from his raw flesh, changing them once they were dirty. She hated hurting him then, and she takes no pleasure in it now as she threads her needle to begin pulling his skin back together.
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He stays still, practiced and calm. There were enough days without any sort of numbing poultice or swigs of drink that it doesn't bother him terribly now, the pain something he's sat through time and time again.
Still, there's a flinch here or there, the tremble of muscle under sweat-slick skin.
Without thinking, he reaches out to brace a hand on the outside of her thigh.
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"Almost, Clive. Almost. You know this is the worst part." Pinching the skin together when it's already tired and sore.
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"I'm happy to keep my vision," he murmurs.
He takes a deep breath and relaxes so he doesn't tense up his way through it.
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Jill's quiet, nimble fingers finishing up the job, the wound still weeping but that's a considerable improvement thus far.
"Better," she sighs, rubbing her cheek on her shoulder to free it from a few strands of her hair. Her hands are a mess even after she uses a clean part of the towel to wipe them.
"How does it feel?"
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"Much improved," he replies. Not great, and the burn of tugged flesh is an unpleasant complement to the throbbing in his skull, but it's manageable. He chooses not to think of what happens when the itch kicks in. "Thank you."
And then, realizing where his hand is, he lets his touch fall away slow and subtle as he can. Like she wouldn't have noticed.
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Once, she would have straddled his thigh or fit herself between his knees to clean his face. Instead, she dampens the towel and steps around him.
Still, the fingertips that tip his chin upwards so that she can see his bloodied face are tender with their touch. She looks into the eyes of the person she loves with her whole heart, tries to search for something she doesn't know how to name, swallows hard, and steels herself so she can begin wiping his face clean.
She can't be emotional now.
"Close your eyes," she says quietly. She needs to wipe around them. And this is all easier when he's not looking at her and making her heart ache.
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He can just repeat:
"Thank you, Jill."
He closes his eyes, dark lashes settling against his bloodied cheeks, bangs wild and damp around his face.
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She's as gentle as can be, starting from his hairline, smoothing his hair back. With the blood, it obeys for once, and she almost finds it funny.
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The tenderness of her touch makes him want to sob.
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"Please be more careful. That's all I'll ever ask of you," she says, voice just above a whisper. "For my sake, if not your own."
their relationship would be different if she just slipped melatonin into his dinner every night
"For you, I will," he promises. His own life is lost already, anyway, but the tone of her voice cuts deep. "I'll get better sleep... somehow."
give clive some night night
"You will tonight." At least. Torgal looks like he has no intention of pacing until the sun rises.
She wonders if Clive misses their bed. This apartment. She wants to ask, but any answer will hurt, won't it? Nothing had to change, but he made a choice.
"I'll get you some water to drink once I finish with your face."
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If he never saw the inside of that room again, he'd be pleased.
"You're kind, Jill."
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"You didn't like when I suggested you run me through... but even if you did, I would still do this for you," she says. Her heart is stronger than her head. "Call it kindness if you will."
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wow she drinks from his glass... v. intimate... I see...
💋 practically a kiss when he drinks from it
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give me the other tag back this one is too sad
it lives on only in your memories now
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SAD, THANKS
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NO.............. that's so sad............
needs to bottle his sweat
basement plan now has different connotations
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that should happen lmao it would be funny
she gets spotted out with clive and then he comes home to a destroyed couch
flawless plans
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