Shit, he didn’t mean to laugh, and it wasn’t much of a laugh - short and ragged - but it was still a laugh at that ’You’d do the same for me,’ like come on, guy, you’ve gotta know that’s not… A reliable thing to say, like where’s that even coming from? ((Why does it sting a little, sting more than a little, knowing he wouldn’t’ve done any such same thing for this guy? If the intern’d messaged him, though fuck knows why Alice would have, guy’s gotta be smarter than that.) (What would it be like to show up for someone that way? …Not like Treavor’s ever gonna. Fucking find out.))
As soon as he laughs, he looks away, a jarred motion that - predictably, reliably - splashes nausea through his skull, like it could leak out of his goddamn eyes. Eyes shut once more, he pulls a frown, realizes Alice’s said something else, broadened the diea a little bit, and…
Treavor opens his eyes again, looking down. Wanting to reach for Hope but not really wanting to move (maybe if he keeps still he’ll escape detection, won’t have to look at himself). ]
Oh. Uh.
[ He’s scratching the back of his neck. Awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Wincing at the motion and managing a sideways glance at the guy next to him, then back at nothing. ]
I wouldn’t say I’m much of an… anything, guy.
[ Ha ha, can’t take care of himself, how the fuuuck’s he supposed to give a single care to anyone else. The best Treavor can do is offer a bottle of booze. …Probably a half-empty bottle, at that.
He’s not. Good at helping people. (When has he ever needed to be?) (When has he ever had a chance to be?) (Or, nah, fuck that, probably there’ve been chances, he’s just being a shit, always been a shit, etc. etc. etc. what a worn-out fucking story.) Like what do people need, he doesn’t know. Where would he get what they need? Doesn’t have a fucking clue.
Not like he has a car he could go pick someone up with (not anymore). Not like he’s got a cheery disposition or the patience to take someone through a garbage time. Not like if he tried to walk or take a cab he wouldn’t get lost halfway there and wander off for hours, forget all about the sorry shit who called for help.
Also not like Alice has any reason to think Treavor’d do anything more than like. Kick dirt in his eyes. (But Alice isn’t asking for promises here, or what Treavor’d really do, here. There’s something else going on in the question, and Treavor’s head’s aching, but not aching enough to miss that tone completely.)
He’s gone from scratching his neck to rubbing his jaw, the side of his head. it helps a little; briefly eases the pressure. And he isn’t looking at Alice, but he’s speaking directly, carefully to the guy. ]
Hey, come on, we both know I’ve been a jag.
…But maybe if I wasn’t in prime dickweed mood. Maybe I’d make my way to you, you know, eventually. Not on time, but not a no-show. Bring you a Snickers bar. Uh… Dust you off, if you wanted to be presentable.
[ ...Hm. Hm... ]
Tell you about the pigeon-person I met on the way to find you. Probably that, for sure.
no subject
Shit, he didn’t mean to laugh, and it wasn’t much of a laugh - short and ragged - but it was still a laugh at that ’You’d do the same for me,’ like come on, guy, you’ve gotta know that’s not… A reliable thing to say, like where’s that even coming from? ((Why does it sting a little, sting more than a little, knowing he wouldn’t’ve done any such same thing for this guy? If the intern’d messaged him, though fuck knows why Alice would have, guy’s gotta be smarter than that.) (What would it be like to show up for someone that way? …Not like Treavor’s ever gonna. Fucking find out.))
As soon as he laughs, he looks away, a jarred motion that - predictably, reliably - splashes nausea through his skull, like it could leak out of his goddamn eyes. Eyes shut once more, he pulls a frown, realizes Alice’s said something else, broadened the diea a little bit, and…
Treavor opens his eyes again, looking down. Wanting to reach for Hope but not really wanting to move (maybe if he keeps still he’ll escape detection, won’t have to look at himself). ]
Oh. Uh.
[ He’s scratching the back of his neck. Awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Wincing at the motion and managing a sideways glance at the guy next to him, then back at nothing. ]
I wouldn’t say I’m much of an… anything, guy.
[ Ha ha, can’t take care of himself, how the fuuuck’s he supposed to give a single care to anyone else. The best Treavor can do is offer a bottle of booze. …Probably a half-empty bottle, at that.
He’s not. Good at helping people. (When has he ever needed to be?) (When has he ever had a chance to be?) (Or, nah, fuck that, probably there’ve been chances, he’s just being a shit, always been a shit, etc. etc. etc. what a worn-out fucking story.) Like what do people need, he doesn’t know. Where would he get what they need? Doesn’t have a fucking clue.
Not like he has a car he could go pick someone up with (not anymore). Not like he’s got a cheery disposition or the patience to take someone through a garbage time. Not like if he tried to walk or take a cab he wouldn’t get lost halfway there and wander off for hours, forget all about the sorry shit who called for help.
Also not like Alice has any reason to think Treavor’d do anything more than like. Kick dirt in his eyes. (But Alice isn’t asking for promises here, or what Treavor’d really do, here. There’s something else going on in the question, and Treavor’s head’s aching, but not aching enough to miss that tone completely.)
He’s gone from scratching his neck to rubbing his jaw, the side of his head. it helps a little; briefly eases the pressure. And he isn’t looking at Alice, but he’s speaking directly, carefully to the guy. ]
Hey, come on, we both know I’ve been a jag.
…But maybe if I wasn’t in prime dickweed mood. Maybe I’d make my way to you, you know, eventually. Not on time, but not a no-show. Bring you a Snickers bar. Uh… Dust you off, if you wanted to be presentable.
[ ...Hm. Hm... ]
Tell you about the pigeon-person I met on the way to find you. Probably that, for sure.