[ Treavor jars upright and Alice moves with him, unthinking (and unwilling to relinquish something, contact or nearness or care.) (This.) (Whatever this is.)
(It's nothing.)
(He's just. Being helpful.)
((Helpfully moving in tandem, together, thoughtlessly, oh, it feels -))
He watches tensely this second encounter, because Hope has been known to be wary, herself, and bite without warning (or as warning, he would later find. How those bites were deserved.) And then slowly relaxes. Slowly falls into minor awe, because Hope can be unkind, and Treavor can be a prick, but there's nothing but warmth, nothing but friendliness here.
Not even hesitation. Treavor didn't even pause at the sight of her. No halting hand, no flicker of uncertainty. Just eagerness, just the delight now blooming a smile across his face (and Alice is.)
(Alice is.)
(Not breathing.)
(Alice is.)
(Staring up at that face, haloed in morning sunlight, or it's light from that smile, or it's the grace of Hope's approval.)
(Alice is.)
(Shuddered soul-deep with (fear)(wanting)(horror)(need)(worship) that smile.)
She's perfect.
A sound escapes him. It's barely a breath, an oh, and it's a betrayal, a stricken and wounded and helpless sound that maybe. Maybe he can play off as gratitude.
He has that, too. Gratitude so heavy it's suffocating him, so deep he might drown. He could weep it into those heavy hands currently occupied with the tender act of petting Hope. (After all, who else is there but her? Who else has there been but her for a while now?
And who else has called her perfect, and said it so Alice believed them?)
It's not the cause. Gratitude.
(He's fucked. He's fucked, he's so fucked.)
He has to turn away before Treavor sees his face. (He has to turn away from that smile. From the sight of Treavor petting his cat, and his cat approving of Treavor, and he called her perfect, and Alice is fucked.)
(His chest hurts. Everything hurts.) ]
She likes you.
[ At least he has ways to occupy himself. Excuses for turning away. The glass of water and aspirin, he can reach for those and proffer them while Treavor is upright.
He manages a half smile and - ]
She'll never leave you alone now, of course.
[ Suggesting what.
Suggesting she'll see Treavor again?
(How does he even begin to approach the idea of Treavor being in his apartment again.
How does he consider inviting him back. How can he think about considering it.)
(Can he exist in a world where there's not another morning with messy hair and those eyes and sunlight around a smile.) (The thought of this never happening again forces air from his lungs too quickly.) (The thought of his own sudden, needful desperation terrifies him.)
(But.) (But. Come back. Please, come back.)
Quietly, he offers: ]
Water and aspirin. Small steps.
[ And he'll help. He'll help if it's needed. Wanted. (Allowed.) ]
no subject
(It's nothing.)
(He's just. Being helpful.)
((Helpfully moving in tandem, together, thoughtlessly, oh, it feels -))
He watches tensely this second encounter, because Hope has been known to be wary, herself, and bite without warning (or as warning, he would later find. How those bites were deserved.) And then slowly relaxes. Slowly falls into minor awe, because Hope can be unkind, and Treavor can be a prick, but there's nothing but warmth, nothing but friendliness here.
Not even hesitation. Treavor didn't even pause at the sight of her. No halting hand, no flicker of uncertainty. Just eagerness, just the delight now blooming a smile across his face (and Alice is.)
(Alice is.)
(Not breathing.)
(Alice is.)
(Staring up at that face, haloed in morning sunlight, or it's light from that smile, or it's the grace of Hope's approval.)
(Alice is.)
(Shuddered soul-deep with (fear)(wanting)(horror)(need)(worship) that smile.)
She's perfect.
A sound escapes him. It's barely a breath, an oh, and it's a betrayal, a stricken and wounded and helpless sound that maybe. Maybe he can play off as gratitude.
He has that, too. Gratitude so heavy it's suffocating him, so deep he might drown. He could weep it into those heavy hands currently occupied with the tender act of petting Hope. (After all, who else is there but her? Who else has there been but her for a while now?
And who else has called her perfect, and said it so Alice believed them?)
It's not the cause. Gratitude.
(He's fucked. He's fucked, he's so fucked.)
He has to turn away before Treavor sees his face. (He has to turn away from that smile. From the sight of Treavor petting his cat, and his cat approving of Treavor, and he called her perfect, and Alice is fucked.)
(His chest hurts. Everything hurts.) ]
She likes you.
[ At least he has ways to occupy himself. Excuses for turning away. The glass of water and aspirin, he can reach for those and proffer them while Treavor is upright.
He manages a half smile and - ]
She'll never leave you alone now, of course.
[ Suggesting what.
Suggesting she'll see Treavor again?
(How does he even begin to approach the idea of Treavor being in his apartment again.
How does he consider inviting him back. How can he think about considering it.)
(Can he exist in a world where there's not another morning with messy hair and those eyes and sunlight around a smile.) (The thought of this never happening again forces air from his lungs too quickly.) (The thought of his own sudden, needful desperation terrifies him.)
(But.) (But. Come back. Please, come back.)
Quietly, he offers: ]
Water and aspirin. Small steps.
[ And he'll help. He'll help if it's needed. Wanted. (Allowed.) ]