[RP] We're not questioning God, just those he chose to carry on His cross.
[[OOC: Backdated to right after the Silent Hall thread, circa two months ago.]]
Sark wouldn't admit it to anyone, but April's journal entry announcing the return of one Jack Harkness or John Thane or whoever the hell he was today set him so far on edge that it took every iota of control that he had within him to keep from turning into something and ( Read more... )
Sark wouldn't admit it to anyone, but April's journal entry announcing the return of one Jack Harkness or John Thane or whoever the hell he was today set him so far on edge that it took every iota of control that he had within him to keep from turning into something and ( Read more... )
Suzie happens to be making a beeline for her room. In her bra, covered in gauze and burn ointment, vivid black and purple bruises peeking out over the gauze at her throat, the dark circles under her eyes standing out in stark relief against paler-than-usual skin...
One might say she's had a bad day.
One might also say she's about to break.
But then, that doesn't matter, as long as she can reach her room. Her jaw's set, arms tight to her body, fists clenched, but she hasn't broken yet, and if she can just get there without running into anyone, she won't break where anyone can see her. That's what matters.
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Gallows humour? Oh yes. They know all about that in Torchwood.
A moment later, she says, very, very softly, "Thank you."
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Novel concept, that. For all that he seems so resistant to change, there's so much that has.
He sighs, shifting his head just a bit, but not enough that he's stopped resting his head on hers. It's comfortable. "I can't say I'm really that much good at this, but... You're welcome."
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...That means you did well, Sark. And holding her while she cried was more than she'd expected from anyone, though she's not sure she can put that into words. It's there by implication. That'll have to do.
It occurs to her that she should have serious issues with the fact that she's vulnerable and scantily-clad, but the robe's comfortable, and Sark is comfortable, and she doesn't have the energy required to care about anything further.
Besides, friendship is a novel concept for her, as well. She didn't have friends in Torchwood; she had people she got along reasonably well with, people she was wary of, and Tosh, who she hid herself from.
Here... things are different, and the idea that people care about her is still somewhat unnerving. The idea that she can lean against a friend like this and not have him try to take advantage is even more so, but not in any unpleasant sense ( ... )
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There's a reason why a hardass like Sark could spend long hours just cuddling with someone if they'd take him up on the offer. There's nothing sexual about it, even if it often goes hand in hand with sex. It's just... Being close. Before he came here, it was the one bit of weakness he felt capable of indulging and given that it came on the tail end of the perverse sexual acts he tended to engage in, it almost never seemed like it acted in contradiction to what he was ( ... )
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"And just what are you offering?" Her voice is still soft, and the wording itself isn't quite what it might be if she didn't have some small confidence in the fact that this wasn't a proposition. Offering, not proposing. She's very carefully not implying anything, but she's been paranoid for far too long to tell him he can stay without knowing exactly what she's getting into.
The temptation to switch back into shadow-sight is almost overwhelming, but she decides against it. She's seen enough for one day, for one lifetime, and she's far too tired to go prying any deeper than she has to.
Besides, under other, better circumstances, if he'd offered more than company, she might have considered it, though right now she knows quite well she's in no condition to make decisions one way or the other.
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He stumbles over the way to start this, because it's not something he's ever had to ask for in so many words before. "That is to say, if you'd rather not sleep alone... Well. I have no problem with staying here for the night."
He carefully puts emphasis on sleeping. Not sex. Just sleeping together. Spooning, as the kids call it. Comfort in closeness. She looks like she could use it and he enjoys that sort of thing. It's good for both of them.
Hell, there's a mild insinuation that if she wants him to stay, but doesn't feel comfortable with him in the same bed with her, he'll even sleep on the floor.
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And he asked. Didn't try anything when she was clinging desperately. Just asked.
"I haven't had a good night's sleep in... a long time," she admits. "The company can't be worse than staring at the ceiling for hours and then getting up to make coffee, anyway." She shrugs a little.
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He scoots to the edge of the bed and kicks off his shoes before throwing his jacket off, but everything else remains in place. He gives Suzie a look over his shoulder. "If you'd prefer that my company slept on the floor, that can be arranged."
It's half joking and half serious. It never hurts to make sure she's aware of her choices and he'd rather not presume to curl up on her bed, unless he's absolutely certain that she wants him there. Sometimes there's a time for being subtle and sometimes it's better if things are spelled out clearly with boundaries set.
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Her tone of voice suggests she doesn't think she'll need to follow through, but her eyes are flat enough that it's obvious she means it.
"Try not to take that personally, but I needed to make sure we were clear on that." She shrugs, and it's more than half apology. "If that's a problem, I'm more than happy to give you all the floor-space you like."
She does want him on the bed, but she's been too wary of men for too long to let him assume anything.
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He waits until she's completely finished, and then shrugs. "It's not a problem at all. Justifiable paranoia aside, I wouldn't dream of taking advantage of your hospitality, but you're perfectly in your right to assume that I might." He smirks a bit and it's equally cynical, but there's clear evidence of no harm, no foul in the expression, despite that. "And, as far as taking it personally, Suzie, I've heard far worse from people less considerate of my feelings."
He throws his legs onto the bed and promptly curls up, his physical indication that the conversation is over, he's sleeping on the bed, and she can come over and curl up next to him, if she'd like to now.
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The robe might be comfortable, and she was in no condition to go digging for something more concealing at the time, but now...
She rummages through her things and pulls out a t-shirt. It's several sizes too large for her, and secondhand, but that only serves to make it both comfortable and reasonably modest as sleepwear. And since Sark doesn't appear to be looking, she has no problem with slipping out of the robe and pulling the t-shirt over her head.
She pads barefoot to the light switch, and turns to look at him. "You know, it's generally more comfortable, when it comes to sleeping, if you're underneath the covers. Unless you're just going to ludicrous lengths to protect my nonexistent honor..." She makes a valiant attempt at a smirk. "Just a thought ( ... )
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It's nice, really, and he can only hope that it helps Suzie through whatever it is she's going through right now. Where words fail.. Simple physical contact helps.
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After a moment, she makes a little 'hmph' noise and turns, wrapping an arm around his waist and pressing a bit closer. It's partly a desire for contact, for comfort, and partly the fact that, with more contact comes more chance to read his movements, his breath, his heartbeat... It makes him slightly more predictable.
In a lot of ways, cuddling close is less nerve-wracking than feeling him so close but just barely touching him.
And perhaps the whiskey isn't quite done with her yet, because she finds herself murmuring, "Don't misunderstand. You're not by any means unattractive. I just can't think of a worse possible time to even theoretically consider anything more than..." she yawns, "...this. And it's nice, just having a friend here ( ... )
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He tries not to laugh at her murmuring, but there's a small hitch in his breath that suggests a mostly suppressed chuckle. "Go to sleep, Suzie," he says, very gently. He'd rather not be the one who let her ramble while sleep-deprieved and slightly drunk- he'd like this situation to not be awkward in the morning, thank you.
That said, he closes his eyes, wiggles just a bit to get into a more comfortable position, and his breathing relaxes into that casual state of almost-sleep. Not quite sleep, yet, but getting there. If anything, the whiskey certainly made him feel like sleeping for the first time in ages. Suzie being here helps as well.
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