He can't focus, and maybe that makes it better. That it isn't her he's seeing, her that he's talking to, apologizing to.
But at the same time, that tears and cuts at something else in her. That it isn't seeing her, talking to her, wanting her here. Things she has no answer for, and things she doesn't think would have mattered as much twelve and twenty-four hours ago, but now hit her with a confused sharp sort of pain, amorphous and edgeless.
All the same and more when he curls up against her. Fever warm skin and warm breath against her shoulder, and she's glad, absently, that she showered, and that no one expected her to be downstairs, even when they did. She'd done cleaning, and she'd keep going back. They knew that. Which made it confusing why her throat dried too fast on the contact and the edges of her eyes burned, even when she blinked dried eyed and untempted, unmoved, by the strange urge for tears now.
So many hours later. Late. Too late. Not when he died. Not while he was dead. Not when he came back to life. Now. When it was pointless and stupid and there were too many feelings and too many questions.
Jo breathed slowly, timing her own breaths to his, as she reached up to run her fingers through his hair lightly, studying the wall behind him, that the bed lay against. Tired as sin, and uncertain in a way she wasn't sure she'd ever been. What it meant, how she could fail this, too, given he had already died on her watch, and somehow somehow this one she got back, this chance she got a second time, if like a slap, still in her hands all the same.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-12-09 01:07 pm (UTC)But at the same time, that tears and cuts at something else in her. That it isn't seeing her, talking to her, wanting her here. Things she has no answer for, and things she doesn't think would have mattered as much twelve and twenty-four hours ago, but now hit her with a confused sharp sort of pain, amorphous and edgeless.
All the same and more when he curls up against her. Fever warm skin and warm breath against her shoulder, and she's glad, absently, that she showered, and that no one expected her to be downstairs, even when they did. She'd done cleaning, and she'd keep going back. They knew that. Which made it confusing why her throat dried too fast on the contact and the edges of her eyes burned, even when she blinked dried eyed and untempted, unmoved, by the strange urge for tears now.
So many hours later. Late. Too late. Not when he died. Not while he was dead. Not when he came back to life.
Now. When it was pointless and stupid and there were too many feelings and too many questions.
Jo breathed slowly, timing her own breaths to his, as she reached up to run her fingers through his hair lightly, studying the wall behind him, that the bed lay against. Tired as sin, and uncertain in a way she wasn't sure she'd ever been. What it meant, how she could fail this, too, given he had already died on her watch, and somehow somehow this one she got back, this chance she got a second time, if like a slap, still in her hands all the same.