the one who is just there

HARPER

Despite his expertise in wound care in a battle situation, Harper is no doctor, and certainly no psychologist. Nonetheless the slow, dull-eyed blink she gives him as she turns at his voice - and the lack of response before that - worries him deeply. Feeling useless to do anything more than rub her back gently, he waits for her to speak. To give him something, anything, some kind of clue to go off of here.

Instead all he receives is the gut-wrench of watching her put out her cigarette on her knee, and he can't help how he plucks it from her fingers and sends it flying into the abyss below. Immediately using that spare hand to tangle with her own and hold it tight, so she at least can't use that one to grab another. His own hands are scarred and calloused, but she can hold it as tightly as she desires. "Hey," he says softly as he moves closer, frown playing at his lips and browns drawn tight. "Anything that bothers you is something that matters. And if it doesn't matter to you, it matters to me." Harper gives it a moment to sink in and hopes that it does at least some small amount of convincing before he continues. "I just want to help. What happened?" Because clearly that's the question that really needs to be asked here.

lord don't let me break this, let me hold you lightly
give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly