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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.”

She lets him touch, needing it to steady herself like he needed to steady himself against her. She wants to kiss him. She wants it more than anything, and she thinks she might just give into the pull when he speaks.

She's not strong. He pulled the rug out from under her and she collapsed and still hasn't found her footing. Her hair falls into her eyes as she shakes her head. Strong and resilient are not words that describe her right now, especially not when she goes from wanting to kiss him to wanting to cry in his arms and beg once more for him to stay with her.

Instead, she lets out a slow, measured breath.

"I would exchange myself for Joshua if only this place allowed it," she says, hand still on Clive's face, but unable to look at him. "You need him."

More than he needs her. Joshua would speak sense into him. Make him see, make him understand, in ways she cannot.

"The Phoenix would save you."

Hearing Joshua’s name still makes him start, a little flurry of sorrow running up in him.

“I do need him,” he admits. As, he’s realizing, he needs her. He searches her face, wishing she would turn it to him. “But I need you too.”

He hesitates, head throbbing. Her hand clasped under his. He couldn’t trade them. Not for any reason.

“He could not save me. He tried, but it wasn’t enough. It killed him.”

She does look at him, pained, when he mentions Joshua's death.

"Ultima killed him," she clarifies quietly, but firmly. Regardless of what exactly happened, details Clive will not share, Ultima is the one responsible. Everything is because of Ultima.

“Yes,” he says. “But Ultima did not strike him down, rather he burst forth from the Crystal in Joshua‘s chest.”

He swallows, dry and thick.

“He had locked Ultima away there to protect me… and it killed him.”

The inevitable result of the decision to try and contain him there in the first place. The mental image is enough to have Jill make a strained noise before she can stop herself, the sound from an effort not to burst into tears.

She pulls her hand away to clamp it over her mouth, fighting to keep the emotions down.

She'd argue it's still entirely Ultima's doing, but she needs a moment to keep her composure.

Tension be damned, sense be damned — he reaches for her, a large hand settling on her elbow, like he could guide her to his arms with the gesture alone.

“He spoke to me the whole time,” he says, a tremble surfacing on his voice. “Of the Hideaway, and our mission, and you. But he knew his body couldn’t survive. He gave me Phoenix.”

She could have resisted until one critical part: and you. For as much as she hoped for a life with Clive when they finished their work, she has hoped to continue to rebuild her relationship with Joshua, make up for all the years lost.

She can't squeeze her eyes tight enough to stop a tear from rolling down her cheek. Oh, but the blood--her last excuse to avoid falling into Clive, but her bloodied fingers have already gotten it on her cheek.

"You never said," is all she says, voice cracking, before allowing herself to press her face into the top of his hair, only a little mindful of his injury.

And now she knows. He has all of the Eikons.

The sting of her weight against his cracked head is nothing compared to the relief of holding her, the grief of the mere thought of Joshua. He slips his arms around her, cautious, loose.

“I know,” he says, apologetic, a hand tangling in her hair, his own tears catching on his eyelashes. “He believed in your hopes for me, that I’d save myself… but he died in my arms… how could I risk your life, too, my love? How could I let you pin your hopes on someone who only brings ruin?”

The only reason she can tuck him under her chin is because he's seated. So she does, reaching her arms around his shoulders, hold more firm than his owbmn. No matter what happens between them, they both love Joshua. They both grieve him.

"Isn't that what we fought so hard for, all this time? The freedom to choose. Joshua chose his path, and so did I."

And then Clive chose for them.

How divine, to be held by her, after the last month. He's feared it and taken it for granted, but here, he can sink into it, pressing his face against her throat.

"And I swept everyone's freedom away by failing to defeat Ultima," he says, with a breath that veers towards a sob. "Death is all that's left."

"It's not your fault, Clive. None would ever blame you but yourself," she tells him. She can feel the blood, now sticky, against her neck from where she'd failed to wipe it away from his wound, but she doesn't want to pry him off her.

"Death had not been so bad, until recently." And it has hot water on demand. Like he said. But it's a poor consolation for all that was lost, she knows.

"And for that I can take the blame," he says, a hand roving up her back as he wraps both arms around her fully.

That, she can't argue. Jill takes a deep breath he'll feel, arms tight around his shoulders still.

"I'm sorry," she says, and she's not apologizing for her coldness or distance or anything she's said or done. "I'm sorry you hurt so much."

Maybe the least she can do as they learn to live apart is not add to it. She doesn't know. It's difficult when she's in pain, too.

For a moment, he just sobs — ugly, shoulder-shaking things that is hardly served by the blood loss and the exhaustion. But he has her, for at least this moment, to hang onto.

All that he’s at fault for, there is at least one thing he can do.

“Jill,” he says, soberly, tear streaked. He lifts his head away from her just to find her face, but he doesn’t get far. “Even if Valisthea is lost, I will build you a better life here, for all that you’ve done for me, and continue to do. I want to earn your faith in me again.”

She's never known anyone else to sound so terribly broken when they weep. It shatters her defenses, and she sucks back her own sob as she holds him to her, cheek on the top of his head.

When he tries to lift his face, she tucks him right back against her neck and chest. It's easier this way, when they can hold onto one another and not have to see the sorrow in their faces.

She wishes she had the trust she had in him from a month prior. He's talking nonsense, even now, so sad and pained from both his injury and his own emotions.

She just shushes him and holds him.

"You need rest," she says gently.

Words, he realizes, are fruitless; not only do they feel thick and difficult to put together, but they say nothing about his ability to follow through. Actions. He needs actions.

But right now he feels like he's got a battle axe being wedged deeper and deeper into his skull, inch by inch, moment by moment. There's a pressure behind his eyes that begins to feel intolerable, and he can't just blame the blow to the head.

"I'm exhausted," he admits, still holding her.

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

give clive some night night

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