[ She has to take care here. They're still in the doorway, still trapped between the space of thought and deed, and he could reach the bed and change his mind. He could decide the ache of the morning (and all the other troubles that drag him down) is too much to bear, and she wouldn't blame him even a little.
His brothers are a consistent, ever-present weight, forcing him further into himself. Something has to give in his life; the drinking is an outlet. She doesn't need him to stop now, to give up this one escape from the pressure, but she needs to know he could. That he's willing to try.
Why bother going to war for him, why bother upending his world and giving him something new, if he's too deep in a bottle to notice the difference? If she's going to do this, she needs to know he wants it - and some shred of a guarantee that he's not going to drink himself to death.
And just now, just now she needs to contain the glow of pride she feels for him, because that could just as easily seem like a trap: a way to let her down if he can't make it to the bed. If he can't let go of the whiskey, turn aside for a while. Pride can come after. Mostly after. A little feeds into her smile, because even saying he wants to try -
That's something. It's enough.
Another step backwards. ]
Come back to bed, then.
[ There, a flicker of mischief, an offer of distraction. She hasn't released her hold on his shirt, though certainly he could pull out of that faint hook of her finger if he chose. ]
Help me think of an alibi for the massacre in the bathroom before Wallace gets here.
no subject
His brothers are a consistent, ever-present weight, forcing him further into himself. Something has to give in his life; the drinking is an outlet. She doesn't need him to stop now, to give up this one escape from the pressure, but she needs to know he could. That he's willing to try.
Why bother going to war for him, why bother upending his world and giving him something new, if he's too deep in a bottle to notice the difference? If she's going to do this, she needs to know he wants it - and some shred of a guarantee that he's not going to drink himself to death.
And just now, just now she needs to contain the glow of pride she feels for him, because that could just as easily seem like a trap: a way to let her down if he can't make it to the bed. If he can't let go of the whiskey, turn aside for a while. Pride can come after. Mostly after. A little feeds into her smile, because even saying he wants to try -
That's something. It's enough.
Another step backwards. ]
Come back to bed, then.
[ There, a flicker of mischief, an offer of distraction. She hasn't released her hold on his shirt, though certainly he could pull out of that faint hook of her finger if he chose. ]
Help me think of an alibi for the massacre in the bathroom before Wallace gets here.