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"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.

Jill knows that if things were different, she'd have him in her arms, wounded head heavy on her stomach or lap where she can watch over him as he sleeps. She'd give in to the desire to simply take care of him, petting his hair, wanting love and comfort to be the first thing he feels when he wakes again.

But she carefully moves his hand off her knee and rises, making sure he looks warm and comfortable before she turns off the light and steps out into the living room. She should change, nightgown soiled as it is, but that means rummaging around in the bedroom. She won't wake him.

So, she goes to make herself comfortable on the couch. That means Torgal must move--and he does, with a sleepy little grunt, sliding off the couch to go plop down in the bedroom doorway where he can have a view of both Clive and Jill. He curls up and sleeps with an ease Jill forgot he was capable of.

Jill's maybe a little envious. With the throw blanket draped over the couch pulled down over her, she curls up, and after what feels like forever of trying not to think about Clive or Joshua or anything at all, she dozes off.

Clive sleeps until noon.

While it isn't unheard of for him to sleep late, given how often he goes to bed just before dawn, it's seldom been so desperately needed. With Torgal being a (beloved) nuisance and stress with Jill and Krauser keeping him out later and the fucking weed problem in this city and now the injury, he'd started to assume he'd simply never feel rested again.

When he wakes, his head throbs dully; no doubt the Phoenix sleeping in his blood has seen to the worst of it. He just rolls over and lays an arm across Jill's side of the bed, to reach for her, and instead finds Torgal, also dozing. Well, he decides, still half-asleep, that's fine, too.

While Jill is up well before noon, she does sleep in later than she normally would. She feels sore herself, waking up, a new wave of mourning for Joshua lapping at her feet. And worry for Clive is what has her finally getting up--she peeks in to make sure he looks at ease before heading back out to read.

By the time he's rolling over in bed, she's quietly stepping into the bedroom with a sandwich on a plate. If he hadn't been awake, she would have to wake him: not that she minded his presence, but she only would have been worried about him going so long without eating.

"How's your head?" She asks, coming to the side of the bed. "Do you think you can stomach some food?"

Clive rolls back over a bit and cranes his neck to look at her — that is definitely harder on his head, but his sleepy goes to her face to her hands to the sandwich and then back to her face.

“Much better,” he says, and he pushes himself up to sit, but he lingers with his weight on his hands, still looking at her. “Yes, but I hope I didn’t keep you from dressing…”

Her nightgown is rusty brown and stiff in a few parts and Jill only seems to remember when she glances down at herself and looks surprised.

Just a reminder of last night.

"Oh. That's all right, I didn't want to wake you up." As if she'd be slamming drawers. She offers him the plate and the simple ham and cheese sandwich on it.

"Here, Clive."

More important that he eat.

He pushes himself back against the headboard so he can take the plate in both hands, steadier than he anticipated. Rest did more for him than he thought.

"I was so far gone I think I would have slept through the city being put under siege," he admits. "Did you sleep alright? Did Torgal?"

She wonders if his memory of the night before is clear or muddled. Her sleep came with some silent tears, but that is not for him to know.

"We both slept just fine," she tells him. After an awkward moment of simply standing there, she sits on the very edge of the bed, heels on the carpet supporting most of her weight.

"It's the first night he hasn't spent pacing back and forth."

Clive hesitates to point out what feels obvious; as long as they live apart from each other, Torgal is going to do this. What can he suggest that he hasn't already suggested, that won't make her feel cornered into doing something she doesn't want to do?

But he's hopeful, too. He's here now. Things are peaceful.

It was almost worth taking the kind of blow to the head.

"That's a relief," he says. "For him and both of us."

She knows it: Torgal will never understand why they are both here, but apart. He will always try to lead one to the other. His pack should not be divided.

And Jill agrees. They shouldn't be apart, but as she sits with Clive now, she hurts. It's like the quiet ache in her joints and bones. Tolerable, for now, but it will catch up to her.

When she looks at him, she focuses on where his injury is hidden beneath matted hair.

"You should take it easy today."

Her silence on the subject is good confirmation. He shouldn't bring it up again, not now. He just nods, short and curt.

"I can manage a walk back to my apartment," he says, and he promises: "No hunting tonight."

Her gaze does properly settle on his face, making eye contact. She thinks she'll walk him back to his place, just to be sure.

"You should bathe before you go. A bath, or a shower at the very least," she tells him. She'd done her best to clean him up last night, but his skin is still stained with blood, hair stiff and sticking out in odd spots. He can't walk down the street like that.

It's nice, to meet her eyes and feel like she's comfortable doing so. He's grateful for it, really. For that and her kindness.

"If it's not too much trouble, I'll take a bath," he says. His apartment does not have one.

"It's no trouble." It's like that first day she found him here, and one of the first things she did when she brought him to the apartment was make sure he had a bath. There were already cracks in their relationship then, but she'd been so relieved to have him in her arms that she happily ignored them.

Now here they are. Sitting near one another, but she feels worlds away.

"Take your time. I'm not going to hurry you out the door."

She can at least give him that.

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