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He thinks on the three chapters of Jill's life, the part where she was raised to be a bride and the part where she was a weapon of war and the part where she accompanied him in rebellion, and he does not think he can send her out to find work so easily. What she needs is time to heal and relax, and enjoy herself, and he does not find himself moved to think otherwise.

"I don't want you to worry about money," he says, handing her the bag. "Just as you don't want me to live in squalor. Perhaps we just call it even there."

As much as she would love to say it to his face, spit out a I am no longer your responsibility, it's too hypocritical even for her. She worried over his injury, insisted he was fed and well before seeing him home, and now she's cleaning his room because she can't stand the thought of him living like this.

She bites her tongue and starts filling the bag with the containers at her feet. It's still not quite fair, the arrangement. She'll think of something more to do.

"Well... should you change your mind, you won't hear a complaint from me. I would understand."

"I'll remember that," he promises, and he will, but he cannot imagine a world in which he needs to call upon her for anything like that. He's committed, in that sense, even if he can't provide anything else.

The frames from his loft bed will take a number of trips to take down, but for now he stacks them upright in the corner. His laundry bag was pinned under some of them, and he tosses that onto the pile of dirty laundry.

At least Clive has left no crumbs in his takeout containers. Jill expects to touch something unpleasant at some point, but they're all clean. They're not ones to waste food.

"Were any of these places particularly good...?" She pauses to read the name on one of the containers.

He glances at what she's holding and struggles to remember where it was even from, so he takes four steps to get close enough to see.

"Oh," he says. "That was something called pad-tie. Noodles in some sort of nut sauce. I'll bring you some next time I get it."

She puts the container into the trash bag.

He probably shouldn't. They don't need to be getting one another food, even if she did bring him a coffee and it's becoming very apparent that, while he can feed himself, he was so happy eating a simple sandwich.

"Have you found anything else interesting?"

Small talk stings when she'd been looking forward to discovering new things together.

"I wouldn't say interesting," he says, "but it's fine."

Truthfully, he's been eating at the same places over and over again, because they are on the exact route he takes to get home, or because it's served at the same bars he frequents.

Speaking of coffee, he fetches his from the counter to take a swig.

"Have you?"

"A few things," she says, shoving more containers into the bag. She can at least see the light at the end of the tunnel. "That winter market is huge. Every time I stop by, I find something new."

And so often she wishes she could turn around and show him something, but he's not there.

"I went earlier this month, but Torgal was too overwhelmed to pay much attention." He nods. "I should go back when it isn't my week."

He realizes one garbage bag won't cover it all, so he grabs a second. Why the fuck did he buy garbage bags and then not use them?

Jill ties up the first bag and gently tosses it by the door. It doesn't have to travel far.

"You should. It's a good way to spend the time," she says, though she imagines Clive wandering the stalls alone, and that does pull at her heart. "The food and drinks are lovely."

Food feels like reason to venture back there. Imagining her enjoyment of it, doubly so.

"What did you enjoy most?"

Jill will always love her food, and she can't help but smile at the memory of a particularly good meal as she shoves more containers into the bag.

"I'm sure it's of no surprise, but there was a stall selling the most perfect bread. It was warm and soft on the inside, crispy on the outside... and they had so many spreads and oils to dip it in. I imagine I was supposed to take it home to eat, given the packaging, but I sat on a nearby bench and nearly ate the whole loaf myself. There was an artichoke dip full of butter and cheese that I could eat every day."

Yes, her favorite meal that isn't necessarily a seasonal staple was the bread. Jill sighs. Maybe she'll stop by and get another loaf and container of dip once she's done here.

Clive can't help but smile, though he keeps his attention on what he's doing, fishing plastic cutlery out of the sink, where he has never washed a single dish. (Because he does not own any.)

"I haven't had an artichoke since we were last in Dhalmekia," he replies. "And that definitely did not include butter and cheese."

Sounds decadent. How fortunate for the people here.

"It's decadent. We--"

Not we. Jill tempers her excitement with scooping up the last of the containers into the bag, and clearing out the bin that had disappeared in among the mess. He needs a bigger one.

She would love to share that with him, watch his own face light up at the taste, but that's not a thing to share anymore.

"You should try it, if you have the chance. You'll love it."

He hears the we and wonders if it would be so terrible if they were just friends; he may not be in a position where he can be a partner to her right now, but they were close long before they were together. Still, that's for her to decide. He chooses not to suggest it again and again.

"I think I will," he says. "Though when this place is clean, perhaps I'll actually enjoy being here."

Not likely. It's practically a coffin.

She doesn't know how she can ever go back to knowing him as simply a friend. She doesn't know how to not fall into him, and it seems unfair to saddle him with her yearning when he doesn't want it. And she thinks it's unfair to do to herself as well: to dangle what she wants most right in front of her, to bite her tongue in every conversation, to put her emotions into a box. She will do nothing but build resentment.

"You'll at least be able to move without knocking into something," she murmurs. With the containers taken care of, she reaches for the laundry bag to start shoving what she assumes are his dirty clothes into it. "Torgal might even let you have a spot on the mattress."

With the state of this room, it's all dirty. Clive takes two steps back to the mattress and uses his bare foot to kick back a square of blanket to reveal a huge bloodied spot where Torgal had gnawed on a meaty bone.

"I ought to just replace the damn thing, and keep this one for him."

And put it where? Who knows.

They've both slept in filthy conditions, but Jill still can't stop the sound of disgust that escapes her throat.

"They do make dog beds. Surely we can find one that he fits. And... you do need a new mattress, I fear. I wouldn't know how to go about purchasing one..."

Clive stares down at it, realizing he doesn't know either. He has never bought furniture in his life.

"I think I'd need more floor space either way, or to get a new loft so my bed can be up on the wall again."

He also does not know how to build a structurally sound bed, much less one that is Torgal-proof.

"And then his bed can take up most of the floor."

So much for her market plans. This is different, of course, from sharing a meal.

"If you'd like, I can help you look once we've made space in here. Assuming you don't have plans today, either."

A furniture store should be safe enough to explore together without emotions getting involved.

She wants to spend more time today. He's rebuffed her a few times now and it feels rude to do it again, so despite looking briefly surprised, he replies:

"I don't have plans. I'd appreciate your help, Jill."

She wouldn't be able to rest even without Torgal's pacing in the middle of the night, knowing his living situation.

"Of course. You've proven you need proper rest."

Just like the rest of them.

"I thought after all those years, I was immune," he replies.

The trash bags are piling up. Something will have to be done about the floor and fur, but that's a problem for another day.

"Wait here," he says. "I'll take these to the hatch."

Jill nods. He didn't say wait and do nothing, however. She'll fish around for something to at least do a pass over the windowsill and the kitchenette, grimacing at the dirt.

She wonders if he'd be living like this if she never came to the city at all, or if she's somehow driven him to this. It wasn't this bad before, was it?

It doesn't feel good.

The short walk up the hall is a good time to let out a long, tense exhale, out of her earshot so it doesn't make her feel uncomfortable. He's uncomfortable. He's glad to spend time with her, and glad to have a cleaner space, but the embarrassment of her seeing it still clings to him. It'd been easier, before. No Torgal, no visitors.

By time he comes back, he's braced himself properly again and puts on a small smile.

"I'll take the wood down later," he says. "I can't thank you enough for your help."

He can never let it get this bad again.

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