noburden | inbox

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.

"Let's get you into bed and I'll finish cleaning you up there," she tells him, needing to get some space between them before she simply decides to never let him go.

Besides, his strength is surely waning and she can't move him without his help.

She very carefully peels herself away, skin sticking to him where the blood is drying. They're both a mess. Jill only wipes at her neck with the back of her hand, not wanting to look at his face just yet.

He just nods, letting her go and immediately wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, as though he still might get away with his tears not being noticed. And then, with the efficiency of rote practice, he starts unbuckling armour.

Jill gives him some privacy so she too can wipe her eyes, quietly sniffle, and gather the towels and bowl of water to take to the bedroom. The covers are already down, ready for him, so all that's left is to grab him a cup of water from the kitchen.

She takes a long drink from the glass before topping it off and putting it on the nightstand. She's so tired. If things were different, she'd be pulling him into bed to curl up against him and sleep until things were less terrible.

But things are not different. She can only do what their situation allows.

"Do you need help?" She asks as she slowly approaches him. Undressing, standing--any of it.

Clive has most of his gear off by time she's back, down to clothes and boots. His vest is unlaced, hanging open to reveal an Underarmour tank top with the front slashed to the navel. He's working at his boots slowly, his head spinning from leaning that far forward.

"Yes," he admits, a touch reluctantly. She's done so much.

"I'll take care of that," she says, a hand gently pushing back on his shoulder before she kneels before him.

He must feel awful if he's admitting he needs help undressing. She gets one boot off with an ease he could never manage in this state, and glances up at him as she works on the other.

She wants so desperately to hold him again, wrap her arms around his waist and bury her face into his chest. The longing feels all the worse after allowing herself to comfort him. She misses him and now... she sees that maybe he does need her, and he knows it, too.

But they still sat in this very apartment and he broke her trust and her heart without second thought. It still hurts too much to forget or forgive.

"Thank you," he says, sitting back again. It's really more of a slouch; he has no doubt he can get to his feet again, but his head is starting to spin.

He picks at the remaining lacing on his vest, and then the lacing on his trousers. He glances at her as he does, but seeing her kneeling at his feet puts a hard lump in his throat, so he averts his eyes to not make either of them uncomfortable.

"Do you remember when we were children, and Joshua was very small," he murmurs. "And when he was frightened, he'd crawl into bed with one of us?"

Jill looks back to his boot, carefully sliding it off his foot. She finds herself mourning lost time. They should have all grown up together. They should all be together now.

"I do," she says, standing and reaching out to help slide his vest off his shoulders. "Terrible as it was, I looked forward to seeing his little face peer at me in the dark."

He trusted her as much as he trusted Clive to protect him, keep him safe. So much for that.

He hums under his breath, sitting forward just enough to help her get it down his back, slipping an arm out with a brief wince. The undershirt can stay on, sweat-slicked as it is.

"He would just stare, wouldn't he? Unable to put whatever nightmare he'd had into words, hoping you'd understand if he met your eyes long enough."

Five years isn't too much of a gap in time, but Joshua had been sickly, and that had made the years between them feel much longer.

"By morning he'd have all your blankets and you'd have bruises on your legs from where he kicked in his sleep..." Clive reminisces, nostalgia in his eyes, sureness on his voice: "But he had slept."

She wonders if his nightmares were actually prophecies of what horrors there were to come. It's not a thought she'd voice to Clive even on a good day, so she focuses on carefully freeing him of that vest and letting it drop by his boots.

She seems to think the sweaty undershirt needs to go, and she slowly begins to peel it upwards.

"I'd wake up with his head on my pillow and my neck aching from whatever angle it was at in the night," she recalls, a quiet fondness in her voice. "But it was worth it, to see his smile in the morning. To know he was no longer afraid, and that I did that for him."

He sits up a little straighter, lifting his arms up to make it easier, watching her every moment that there isn't fabric passing over his head. He likes seeing her fond. She's prettiest when she's nostalgic. Happier.

"Mm. I'd take any scolding by his nursemaids or my mother to see that smile."

She agrees with a soft hum. She misses that. She misses Joshua, and she has to take a moment after taking his shirt off to clear the lump from her throat.

"You're the one that must be tucked away safe in bed now," she says, and it's the closest thing to teasing she's said to him in a very long time. No nursemaids in sight, but she's sure Dion would have some opinion about this.

A good thing she has no intention of bringing this up to anyone.

"I'll steady you."

Clive could chuckle at that, but it just comes out as a short exhale and the slightest tug at the corner of his mouth.

"I promise not to sneak out of it later," he says. He leans forward to get momentum and gets to his feet, a hand on her shoulder, the other on the back of the seat of the chair.

"I'll be impressed if you can sit upright again anytime soon," she says, and that's not teasing. It's a sincere belief. Jill slips an arm around his middle, there to help him keep his balance as they make the short trek to the bedroom.

“I’ll sleep for days,” he murmurs, getting to his feet properly, his weight leant against her. The floor isn’t spinning so much now, but he feels every step fray the threads of his remaining energy.

And though he scarcely wants to let her go, his body decides for him, and he sinks down into bed and sprawls on his back bonelessly. Shirtless, trousers askew, bangs still plastered in strange directions.

“I’ve never laid anywhere so soft.”

(Except her ass, of course.)

The bed creaks loudly as he goes down, as if it doesn't recall the weight of him.

"Let's get some water into you before you can no longer move," she says quickly. "You've bled."

A lot. Just in case he hasn't noticed, his blood on two towels thus far and her nightgown. She looks like she barely survived an attack herself.

He wants to argue that water can wait until morning. He’s survived worse. But Jill is worried and he doesn’t want to concern her more, so he lifts his head, oblivious to what he’s lost, even stained all over her.

“I’ll try,” he says, reaching for the glass.

Jill sits beside him on the bed, and she tells herself it's only to make it easier on him. She picks up the glass for him, handing it to him, but a hand remains close in case he begins to spill.

"At least a little," she urges.

It’s tricker than he thinks it should be, mostly reclined like this, but he doesn’t want to sit up again. He attempts it as-is, under her watchful eye, and only ends up with some dribbling along his cheeks as he tilts too far. He doesn’t choke, at least.

Jill's satisfied with what little he gets down, and leans over to put the glass back and grabs another clean towel to wipe his cheek. It helps with some of the remaining blood, too.

"Is there anything else you need?" She asks, busying herself with wiping and dabbing at spots on his face she's missed. He's such a mess he won't truly be clean until he bathes.

He sags back into the pillow, gazing up at her with half-lidded eyes.

“Stay with me,” he says. “Sleep with me like we’re children again.”

Not that it had ever been permitted between a girl and an older boy, but it’s the only thought in his head.

"I can't, Clive," she tells him with a frown. A part of her is hurt he even asks it of her, but she'll blame the injury. "But I'll stay until you're asleep."

Sitting beside him. She's already slipped too far.

Clive pauses, but he nods, a hand drifting to her knee to give it a brief squeeze. Too far, perhaps.

"Thank you."

Her hand brushes over his before she leans over to pull the blanket over him, at least up to his hips.

"Close your eyes. You'll feel better in the morning."

He doesn't want to sleep, even if his head is screaming for it. He wants to lay here in her presence and appreciate it for every moment he can, knowing that tomorrow he will have to rise from bed and leave this apartment again. For now, all his guilt and shame are buried, invisible, under the mountain of his want to be with her, the woman he still loves. In this moment, he doesn't understand why that wasn't enough to endure.

But he has no other choice, at least in body. He closes his eyes with a low hum of acknowledgement, his brows knitting briefly and then easing again.

He's out like a light within minutes, his hand still on her knee.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

wow she drinks from his glass... v. intimate... I see...

💋 practically a kiss when he drinks from it

no subject

give me the other tag back this one is too sad

it lives on only in your memories now

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject