She does get the door, and any that are on the way, without second thought. They were a team for too many years for her to not instinctively move a few steps ahead when his hands are full.
"I would think it something personal by that point." He's let her furniture be, save for the dusting of wolfy undercoat on everything.
Good woman. He adjusts his grip on the beam and lets the bag hang from his wrist for the duration of the elevator ride, shoulders leant against the mirrored wall.
"He knows it's my fault," he says, lightly, but there's a self-aware little look in her direction.
She looks his way when he says it, and she does agree. It's his fault. It doesn't make it less painful to hear, and she looks away before the hurt is too evident on her face.
"Then perhaps he's upset I left at all," Clive remarks, letting his gaze drift up to the ceiling the moment she retreats, the pot lights searing his eyes. "Just the same. I'm sure he'll get his fill of my furniture."
She can sympathize with how Torgal feels. If left alone in his space, when she was full of fresh injury and couldn't see beyond the blur of her tears, maybe she would have destroyed his furniture, too.
"I'll be out of ideas if he continues to turn your things into splinters."
"I just cease to have furniture and live in an empty hall, like the Fallen did," he replies, and he gets the bag up off the floor when the elevator comes to a halt.
Jill follows the signs (and smells) to a metal door that takes a little effort to open, several dumpsters aligned to catch the garbage from the trash chutes. Someone's abandoned a metal bedframe, complete with yellowed mattress with springs sticking through the top.
It smells like piss.
"If all else fails..." she says, and there's so little humor in her voice these days when speaking to Clive it might be a little hard to tell she's joking.
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she gets spotted out with clive and then he comes home to a destroyed couch
"I would think it something personal by that point." He's let her furniture be, save for the dusting of wolfy undercoat on everything.
flawless plans
"He knows it's my fault," he says, lightly, but there's a self-aware little look in her direction.
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"He doesn't think that."
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"I'll be out of ideas if he continues to turn your things into splinters."
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"Your back will appreciate that, I'm sure," she tells him. And his sanity.
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“I pray it doesn’t come to that,” he says. “But no matter. I’ll think of something.”
He follows behind her, slower with his arms full.
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It smells like piss.
"If all else fails..." she says, and there's so little humor in her voice these days when speaking to Clive it might be a little hard to tell she's joking.
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“Then what?” he clarifies, curious.
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She hurriedly steps around him to leave.
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She chooses a direction and heads off, not glancing back to see if Clive follows. She knows he is.