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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 can do that himself if he needs to.

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 does have a steady hand, at least.

"If it's necessary, it's for the best," he says.

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.

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.

He thinks of Krauser and the jagged scar sprawled across his face. Worse than either him or Gav, certainly. He doesn't even notice her hesitation.

"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.

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.

"How does it feel?"

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.

She knows. And she's in no mood to argue. All she does is continue to wipe his face with care, holding onto his jaw as she wipes his eyes clean.

"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."

His eyes drift open just a crack, looking at her through his eyelashes between strokes.

"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."

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're kind, Jill."

The smile she gives him is sad.

"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."

That was cruel. For a long moment he’d forgotten she’d even said that, too caught up in the touch of her hand.

“Actions speak louder than words,” he says. It’s true of him in particular. “I know that. I forgive you, and don’t expect you to forgive me.”

She doesn't know if she can forgive him. Not yet, at least. It's still a wound that has not had enough time to mend, and every time she thinks it might, Clive reappears to yank at the edges.

"I wonder what our actions in the past month say about us," she says, and even that might not be a thing she truly wishes to know. She's been with others. She's fairly certain he has as well, and the thought almost makes her immediately feel sick to her stomach, more than any wound or amount of blood.

His pause is long and thoughtful, accompanied by a frown and sad eyes, still fixed on her.

“That we are wounded people,” he says. “And the scars on our bodies are far shallower than the scars on our hearts.”

He's not wrong. She pauses, looking down for a moment before moving the towel to her other hand. This time, when she touches his face, it's with her bare skin. Her thumb brushes over his cheek.

"I wish I could have helped mend your heart. It's what's most special about you," she says, and she swallows around a lump in her throat. She may say they're different people now, and she does believe it, but she doesn't think his heart is lost. "What I cherished above all."

Perhaps someone else will figure it out with him.

He closes her eyes at her touch, her skin on his. He reaches up to lay his hand over hers, gently, just so that he can hold her in whatever way she’ll permit.

Why did things have to turn out this way?

And then he looks to her again, unblinking. Wanting what he can’t have. Needing what’s right in front of him, and falling short anyway.

“If there was still a way to save myself,” he says, “it would be for you. I was so fortunate to have you. The strongest person I’ve ever known… the most resilient.”

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their relationship would be different if she just slipped melatonin into his dinner every night

give clive some night night

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