zephyr
The blood on your shirt will prove far greater issue than that which has escaped the doctor's ministrations and stitches, but you appreciate the effort anyway. It's another of those strange sweet things Sam seems so fond of doing, like making you tea and cleaning up your shit, and it feels comfortable to just sit back and let someone take care of you.
Or it would, if you hadn't decided to put your foot in your mouth and mess the whole dynamic up. What were you expecting him to say? You knew what the answer might have been, knew that no matter what it would change things, but still your drunk ass decided to ask it anyway, to give voice and name and terrible existence to the whatever-it-is that exists between you. Idiot-
Gods, it hurts to hear those words, the confession of a puppy love you can never hope to deserve or sustain. Care doesn't have to mean anything but that, but you're not so far gone that you've lost all emotional intelligence. The implication is clear, and the ball is in your court, and you know have no idea whether to keep it or give it back.
Then his other hand is on your neck, and your eyes squeeze shut, because you know what you have to do and you know that if you're looking at that face so close to yours there's no way you'll be able to do it. Gently you reach up and move his hands away, pressing them between yours, your thumbs gracing gently over the knuckles as you exhale a long, slow sigh, looking off into the other room.
"I was afraid'a that." Pressing your lips together in a sad smile, you chuckle slightly, shaking your head. "Look, Red- Sam. I'm not.... I don't do this. Date. Be fond'a people." You keep his hands within yours; you do not meet his eyes. "I wouldn' know th'first thingabout it. An' I... I like havin' ya around, but... yer sweet, an' young, an' you deserve someone who can sweep y'off yer feet an' make pretty promises an' keep 'em. And I dunno if that's me."
Finally you let him go, lifting your hand to run it through your hair. "Look, what I'm tryin'a say is..." What are you trying to say? You have very little idea; you're drunk and emotional and you just got stabbed and your heart is racing a hundred miles a minute. Do you want him to go? Stay? Find someone else? Be yours?
Yes.
"I like you, Red. I like what... whatever this is. But I dunno if - or when - or if- I'll be able t'give y'more. Does that... does that make sense?" You're looking at him now, finally, searching for an answer and understanding, for him to make more sense of your nonsense than you possibly can.
Or it would, if you hadn't decided to put your foot in your mouth and mess the whole dynamic up. What were you expecting him to say? You knew what the answer might have been, knew that no matter what it would change things, but still your drunk ass decided to ask it anyway, to give voice and name and terrible existence to the whatever-it-is that exists between you. Idiot-
Gods, it hurts to hear those words, the confession of a puppy love you can never hope to deserve or sustain. Care doesn't have to mean anything but that, but you're not so far gone that you've lost all emotional intelligence. The implication is clear, and the ball is in your court, and you know have no idea whether to keep it or give it back.
Then his other hand is on your neck, and your eyes squeeze shut, because you know what you have to do and you know that if you're looking at that face so close to yours there's no way you'll be able to do it. Gently you reach up and move his hands away, pressing them between yours, your thumbs gracing gently over the knuckles as you exhale a long, slow sigh, looking off into the other room.
"I was afraid'a that." Pressing your lips together in a sad smile, you chuckle slightly, shaking your head. "Look, Red- Sam. I'm not.... I don't do this. Date. Be fond'a people." You keep his hands within yours; you do not meet his eyes. "I wouldn' know th'first thingabout it. An' I... I like havin' ya around, but... yer sweet, an' young, an' you deserve someone who can sweep y'off yer feet an' make pretty promises an' keep 'em. And I dunno if that's me."
Finally you let him go, lifting your hand to run it through your hair. "Look, what I'm tryin'a say is..." What are you trying to say? You have very little idea; you're drunk and emotional and you just got stabbed and your heart is racing a hundred miles a minute. Do you want him to go? Stay? Find someone else? Be yours?
Yes.
"I like you, Red. I like what... whatever this is. But I dunno if - or when - or if- I'll be able t'give y'more. Does that... does that make sense?" You're looking at him now, finally, searching for an answer and understanding, for him to make more sense of your nonsense than you possibly can.
burn all the things you have to burn
save all the people you're supposed to save
save all the people you're supposed to save
