He's right. Jill nods and stands, collecting his plate and bowl. The sooner he goes to have his bath, the sooner she can change out of this bloodied nightgown.
"Of course. You know where the tub is," she tells him, and hurries to the kitchen where she can busy herself at the sink. The sound of the water is loud--a good excuse to no longer speak.
He just gives a sound of acknowledgement, waiting for her to go before he gets to his feet. His head feels fuzzy as soon as he's vertical, but it's manageable, and pads off to the bathroom.
He never bothered closing the bathroom door when he lived here, just as he bathed in the middle of the solar at the Hideaway, and it's no different now as he runs the tap. He leans against the sink's countertop as he finishes tackling his trousers, left loosened from the night before. He shucks them off and drapes them over the countertop, and then waits, fully nude, for the tub to finish filling.
Likewise, she never closed the door while she bathed. She always hoped he'd come join her, or at the very least keep her company with conversation. And the damn urge is there now, to go be with him, and Jill scrubs her face with the kitchen towel after she dries her hands.
Hours around the man and she's already willing to forgive what she should not.
She pointedly does not look towards the bathroom as she goes to the bedroom to change into a pair of jeans and a thick sweater. She's very glad to be out of anything stained with Clive's blood, and she returns to the living room to pull on thick socks, eyes downcast.
She wonders how he'd feel to know she slept with another man on this very couch.
When she moves around the apartment, he glances her way surreptitiously, and then back to the tub when she doesn't pay him any mind. It's fine. He'll be out of her hair before long.
By time the water fills the tub halfway and steams from how how it is, it's good enough for him, and he steps into the water.
Torgal wakes from his sleep, stretching out with a long yawn and then coming over to rub up against Jill's legs. The wolf is clearly content, yellow eyes bright as Jill scratches his ears. The people that are here are where they should be. The nonsense is over.
"Good boy," Jill tells him, already knowing it will be another battle when they part ways. At least one of them will get another good night's rest, until the next exchange.
Sank to his chest in the deep tub, the water threatening to go right over the edge from displacement, Clive closes his eyes –– at least until he hears Torgal moving around, and that has him watching Jill again, or at least the three-inch-wide window he can see of her, angled through the door. Her pretty wrist, her fingers moving around Torgal's ears.
Jill does get up then, crossing back over to the dining table to gather up Clive's things. His shirt reeks, but there's nothing to be done for it. No clothing of his remains here--there's no reason for it. So he'll have to change back into bloodied, soiled clothing, but she can at least pick his things up off the floor so he doesn't pass out leaning down to grab them.
She holds onto his shirt for a moment longer than necessary, clutching it to her chest. It's almost like embracing him, a thing she refuses to do in the light of day. She misses when she'd do it freely, here--but now she wonders if it sent dread to his belly every time she threw her arms around his waist.
He's soaked and scrubbed in no time, leaving the water tinged with... god knows what. By time he's out, dripping water across the floor and dabbing himself off with her towel, he's still thinking. There are so many dead ends. So many twists and turns with no way to know which way to go. Worse than wandering around fucking Lostwing.
He needs to go. He need his clothes.
He wanders to the door, towel held in front of his junk.
"Do you have my––" He pauses. Should he pretend he didn't see?
Jill jumps and lowers his shirt. Did he see? He saw. Why else would he pause? Maybe he'll do her a kindness and not ask. Her eyes are wide as she's torn between apologizing for being caught red handed, clinging to his damn shirt, and entirely stunned to see him without trousers. She knows what's behind that towel, of course.
"I--um. Here, I was just picking your things up off the floor," she says, and hastily grabs his vest so she can avert her eyes while walking over to thrust out both shirt and vest. She hopes he can keep that towel up with one hand.
Even if her hair covers half her face, the pink on her cheeks can't be hidden.
"Of course," he says, apologetic, no judgement in his voice. But he knows something now, and though he's hesitant to make too much of it, he won't forget this easily. He takes the shirt and vest, his hand still maintaining some level of modesty. "Thank you. I'll... change and be on my way."
She turns her back to the bathroom, face on fire, and clears her throat.
"... I would like to walk you home, if you'll allow it," she says, shaking her head at herself. Foolish, to be caught. She might as well have had her nose buried in that shirt. "To be sure you make it safely."
It sounded less desperate of an idea before she had that shirt in her hands. But it is truthful: he seems well enough walking around a small apartment, but a walk outside is much different.
"You know how blows to the head are," she reminds him. They've both been knocked about enough to know that one moment you can feel fine, and the next find yourself on the ground. "It would give me peace of mind."
"I'm happy to have your company," he assures her, voice momentarily muffled as he drags his shirt on. He decides to go without the armour, given he'll just take it off again once home, so trousers, shirt and vest is all he needs. "Do you have a bag for the rest of my accoutrements?"
It's difficult to hear him say he's happy to have her company when he's purposely driven her away. She decides not to dwell on that simple platitude.
"I do," she says, all but ducking into the kitchen to grab a bag. It's a large sturdy one made out of some sort of plastic canvas, with some hideous BEASTFORCE branding all over it. It was a freebie.
She'll just put it on the table, lest she become enamored with some other item of his.
Dressed, he follows her into the kitchen, noting the bag’s logo with some minor disdain — from Dion, no doubt. Clive doesn’t feel bad about shoving his bloodied armor in it. Let it stain. He shoulders it and goes to step into his boots.
Torgal is already at the door, tongue lolling out in excitement. They're going somewhere! Together!
Jill gives Clive a nod and opens the door, Torgal taking off as if somehow being aware of the destination. She does keep a watchful eye on Clive, making sure there's no stumble in his step.
Clive can’t help but smile at Torgal’s antics, heading out behind him with one hand bracing the bag on his shoulder, the other at his side. He decides he feels fine, the headache a dull and ultimately ignorable throb.
Jill's just as quiet, hands tucked away in her pockets to keep warm. The closer they get to his place, the heavier her heart gets.
She hurts, with him, but she doesn't want him to go. Living apart like this is wrong, isn't it? Even Torgal knows. There was to be some way to get back what they had, or figure out...
Jill sighs aloud and brushes the thoughts away. No. It's just her broken heart desperate for something that is long gone. They will never be what they were.
But she'll be less unkind, she thinks. In honor of what they did have.
He’s resolute in the cold, hardly noticing it despite not having a coat. He glances at her when she sighs, barred from putting an arm around her, and then looks ahead of them again.
When they get to the foot of the building, he stops, and says, quietly: “I can manage from here, thank you.”
Jill leaves, and goes back to her new normal. She tries to tire Torgal out over the days to little success: the wolf sometimes seems even more restless now, sniffing around the seat where Clive sat or the side of the bed he slept on. By the time they're to meet for their weekly exchange, Jill is tired. She already has a cup of coffee in hand when she reaches the park, and she even picked up one for Clive, too. No harm in that.
She waits. People pass her sitting on the bench. She waits some more. It's not like him to be late. She waits a little longer, finishing her coffee. His is beginning to get cold.
She thinks about that little head wound. She hasn't heard from him since. He seemed fine, walking back to his room, but...
The worry gets the better of her and she walks the short distance to his building. She thinks she remembers how to get to his room. Up and down a hall, and she knocks with her free hand on the door.
He's been sleeping a lot this week. Without Torgal there, it's easier to catch up on all the hours he's lost, and hunting is less appealing in deep snow, anyway. Sleeping is nicer than being awake, anyway, being aware of the burdens on his heart.
Now, Clive awakes with a start. He blinks through the semi-darkened room –– he's got a towel draped over the window, but it's not big enough to block it all out –– and tries to think of who would call on him, who even knows he's here. One person. What day is it?
Fuck.
He scrambles up. It takes a moment, his foot tangled in his blanket, and he knocks over a half-empty bottle of water in the process. He grabs at a t-shirt discarded on the floor, draped over one of the many shattered and heavily chewed pieces of wood that used to be his loft bed, and he yanks it on. He can't find his pants, so boxers will have to do. He rushes to the door, unchaining it in a hurry. When he opens it, he opens it half a foot only, his body blocking the gap.
"Jill, I'm sorry," he says immediately, the apology heavy and sincere on his voice. "I overslept."
That's a lot of commotion behind the door. Not dead, at least, and Jill merely stands there and stares at the sight of Clive in the cracked door. He looks awful. His hair seems longer, and his beard most definitely is getting out of hand. She opens her mouth to say something, but Torgal is pushing past her legs and trying to wedge the door open with his big head. He wants in.
"... are you all right?" She asks, concerned rather than irritated. It'd be easy. But her heart has softened towards him since he last wept against her neck, and she still offers him the cold paper cup of coffee. This could still be him feeling unwell from that injury. "Here. I got you a coffee."
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"Of course. You know where the tub is," she tells him, and hurries to the kitchen where she can busy herself at the sink. The sound of the water is loud--a good excuse to no longer speak.
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He never bothered closing the bathroom door when he lived here, just as he bathed in the middle of the solar at the Hideaway, and it's no different now as he runs the tap. He leans against the sink's countertop as he finishes tackling his trousers, left loosened from the night before. He shucks them off and drapes them over the countertop, and then waits, fully nude, for the tub to finish filling.
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Hours around the man and she's already willing to forgive what she should not.
She pointedly does not look towards the bathroom as she goes to the bedroom to change into a pair of jeans and a thick sweater. She's very glad to be out of anything stained with Clive's blood, and she returns to the living room to pull on thick socks, eyes downcast.
She wonders how he'd feel to know she slept with another man on this very couch.
SAD, THANKS
By time the water fills the tub halfway and steams from how how it is, it's good enough for him, and he steps into the water.
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"Good boy," Jill tells him, already knowing it will be another battle when they part ways. At least one of them will get another good night's rest, until the next exchange.
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He has to figure out how to salvage this.
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She holds onto his shirt for a moment longer than necessary, clutching it to her chest. It's almost like embracing him, a thing she refuses to do in the light of day. She misses when she'd do it freely, here--but now she wonders if it sent dread to his belly every time she threw her arms around his waist.
NO.............. that's so sad............
He needs to go. He need his clothes.
He wanders to the door, towel held in front of his junk.
"Do you have my––" He pauses. Should he pretend he didn't see?
needs to bottle his sweat
"I--um. Here, I was just picking your things up off the floor," she says, and hastily grabs his vest so she can avert her eyes while walking over to thrust out both shirt and vest. She hopes he can keep that towel up with one hand.
Even if her hair covers half her face, the pink on her cheeks can't be hidden.
basement plan now has different connotations
"Of course," he says, apologetic, no judgement in his voice. But he knows something now, and though he's hesitant to make too much of it, he won't forget this easily. He takes the shirt and vest, his hand still maintaining some level of modesty. "Thank you. I'll... change and be on my way."
He slinks off to do just that.
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"... I would like to walk you home, if you'll allow it," she says, shaking her head at herself. Foolish, to be caught. She might as well have had her nose buried in that shirt. "To be sure you make it safely."
It sounded less desperate of an idea before she had that shirt in her hands. But it is truthful: he seems well enough walking around a small apartment, but a walk outside is much different.
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"If that will assure you that I'm fit to go," he says.
He'll just have to leave her at the door. The apartment itself is not fit for her to see, let alone step foot in.
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"I do," she says, all but ducking into the kitchen to grab a bag. It's a large sturdy one made out of some sort of plastic canvas, with some hideous BEASTFORCE branding all over it. It was a freebie.
She'll just put it on the table, lest she become enamored with some other item of his.
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“Shall we, then?”
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Jill gives Clive a nod and opens the door, Torgal taking off as if somehow being aware of the destination. She does keep a watchful eye on Clive, making sure there's no stumble in his step.
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He’s quiet on their route over.
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She hurts, with him, but she doesn't want him to go. Living apart like this is wrong, isn't it? Even Torgal knows. There was to be some way to get back what they had, or figure out...
Jill sighs aloud and brushes the thoughts away. No. It's just her broken heart desperate for something that is long gone. They will never be what they were.
But she'll be less unkind, she thinks. In honor of what they did have.
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When they get to the foot of the building, he stops, and says, quietly: “I can manage from here, thank you.”
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Instead, she faces him and keeps her feet planted to the sidewalk.
"I'll see you at the park, then."
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“I’ll see you then. Take care, Jill, and thank you again.”
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She waits. People pass her sitting on the bench. She waits some more. It's not like him to be late. She waits a little longer, finishing her coffee. His is beginning to get cold.
She thinks about that little head wound. She hasn't heard from him since. He seemed fine, walking back to his room, but...
The worry gets the better of her and she walks the short distance to his building. She thinks she remembers how to get to his room. Up and down a hall, and she knocks with her free hand on the door.
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Now, Clive awakes with a start. He blinks through the semi-darkened room –– he's got a towel draped over the window, but it's not big enough to block it all out –– and tries to think of who would call on him, who even knows he's here. One person. What day is it?
Fuck.
He scrambles up. It takes a moment, his foot tangled in his blanket, and he knocks over a half-empty bottle of water in the process. He grabs at a t-shirt discarded on the floor, draped over one of the many shattered and heavily chewed pieces of wood that used to be his loft bed, and he yanks it on. He can't find his pants, so boxers will have to do. He rushes to the door, unchaining it in a hurry. When he opens it, he opens it half a foot only, his body blocking the gap.
"Jill, I'm sorry," he says immediately, the apology heavy and sincere on his voice. "I overslept."
He hasn't bothered shaving for days.
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"... are you all right?" She asks, concerned rather than irritated. It'd be easy. But her heart has softened towards him since he last wept against her neck, and she still offers him the cold paper cup of coffee. This could still be him feeling unwell from that injury. "Here. I got you a coffee."
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that should happen lmao it would be funny
she gets spotted out with clive and then he comes home to a destroyed couch
flawless plans
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