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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.

"Very well," he says. He'll eat, he'll bathe, he'll go. He takes a bite of the sandwich and it's better than anything he's eaten in weeks. It's clear on his face, the way his eyes flutter closed, the tension breaking on his brow.

Poor man. She remembers the collection of food containers when he first took her back to where he'd been staying. It's his own doing, that he has no one eager to try a new food with him or attempt a recipe, but it still makes her sad. These are things she does now with Dion and P, spending her time with them rather than alone here.

Two people that would probably not approve of her letting him linger now that he's clearly better. And that's precisely why she won't ever mention last night or this morning to them.

"I have some cut fruit if you want more to eat," she offers.

Fruit brightens his expression a little more too. There's been nothing stopping him from purchasing it himself from the convenience stores he frequents when take-out starts to feel too heavy, but it's different, offered from her hand. Even as privileged as they were in their childhoods, fruit was a treat.

But:

"You've done so much for me, Jill, I hesitate to ask for anything more."

The look on his face is answer enough. Jill doesn't smile, but she shakes her head and gets up to go fetch what she offered. She returns with a small bowl of watermelon, pineapple, strawberries, and blueberries. Seasons matter little here when it comes to produce.

She sits and offers him the bowl.

"They're all so sweet, they'll make you feel even better," she says, because it does matter to her that he's in good health.

Pineapple is new, and watermelon something he's only had with her. He takes the bowl with an appreciative look.

"Thank you," he repeats. He's not sure how many times he's said it, but a few more times won't hurt.

He eats with gusto.

"You're welcome," she replies, and she wishes watching him eat with such enthusiasm didn't bring her joy, even now. He's rattled her to her very core and still, she yearns to see him happy.

She turns her face to see where Torgal has moved, right outside the bedroom door, still dozing.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Clive."

He follows her gaze to Torgal. His gangly legs are stretched out, taking up the maximum amount of floor space possible. Clive feels the flicker of a smile.

"You take good care of me."

She doesn't think so. If she took good care of him, they wouldn't be so broken.

"No matter how things are between us now, I remember all that you've done for me over the years. The least I can do is see you fed."

His attention moves back to her, the gentle slope of her nose.

"We've done a lot for each other," he says. "I don't see that as a matter of repayment, or balances owed."

"We'd never settle them," she murmurs. She can feel his eyes on her, and she looks to him with a faint frown.

"So what I mean to say is... I will take care of you if you're in need. That will never change." She'll tend to his wounds and see he's fed and bathed and hold him when he weeps over Joshua. Always.

Bitterly, he wants to confess to her that he's always in need; he can live without, but that doesn't stop his wants from reaching intensities he cannot deny. But he just nods, and sits forward a little.

"I promise the same in turn. Whatever is within my power, you call call upon me."

She would like to have no need of him. If only.

"I will not be going out to get a wound for you to stitch," she replies quietly, but it is a joke.

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