Dave can't not be aware of the inexorable, orderly progress of time, heavy like chain links he can dart around and through and back and forth but never, just like anyone else, leave behind. He spent his whole day--the whole week, really, but especially today--busy. He's been looping freely to shovel the whole neighborhood, pausing in between to take naps on the soft, perfect, horrendously ugly couch he found; he's been, at one point, in about four places at once today.
It's night, now, and it's cold, and Dave was never going to sleep anyway. Also, he's kind of sore from all the shoveling and running around.
He would have wanted to just be with Meridiana, to listen to her heart beat and murmur stories to each other in the dark, but he's been trying--he doesn't know. Not to lie or anything, or to block her protectively from the truth, but to really firmly treat this as something they can Handle, something that doesn't have to totally upend their lives, despite all evidence to the contrary. It's not unlike them to cling like children on any Thursday night, but he wants Meridiana to have all the sleep she can get.
So, knowing he was going to hold a vigil all night, knowing he wouldn't be able to stand still, knowing he was going to tense at every sound in this unfamiliar old house--knowing she's so attuned to him, she'll wake when he does--Dave kissed her good night with a weary kind of smile and told her he'd be up for a while. In the meantime, he patrols the house silently in three pairs of socks, learning its shadows and corners in the darkness, too, until it's theirs.
He's quiet every time he passes the bedroom door, but not silent. He's here. He's fine. She won't wake up alone. Sometimes he pauses there and thinks about how Haruka can't sleep anymore unless it's in a bedroom, afraid of breaking the rules, and he wonders if they'll ever really get out of that hotel.
When the door opens, he's just about to walk the corridor again. He stops, silent, then exhales as he releases a tension he didn't even know he was holding.
Dave lets go of the poor, ragged edge of his arm-warmer and holds his hand out to Meridiana.]
FIGHTS. Gently. With love.
Dave can't not be aware of the inexorable, orderly progress of time, heavy like chain links he can dart around and through and back and forth but never, just like anyone else, leave behind. He spent his whole day--the whole week, really, but especially today--busy. He's been looping freely to shovel the whole neighborhood, pausing in between to take naps on the soft, perfect, horrendously ugly couch he found; he's been, at one point, in about four places at once today.
It's night, now, and it's cold, and Dave was never going to sleep anyway. Also, he's kind of sore from all the shoveling and running around.
He would have wanted to just be with Meridiana, to listen to her heart beat and murmur stories to each other in the dark, but he's been trying--he doesn't know. Not to lie or anything, or to block her protectively from the truth, but to really firmly treat this as something they can Handle, something that doesn't have to totally upend their lives, despite all evidence to the contrary. It's not unlike them to cling like children on any Thursday night, but he wants Meridiana to have all the sleep she can get.
So, knowing he was going to hold a vigil all night, knowing he wouldn't be able to stand still, knowing he was going to tense at every sound in this unfamiliar old house--knowing she's so attuned to him, she'll wake when he does--Dave kissed her good night with a weary kind of smile and told her he'd be up for a while. In the meantime, he patrols the house silently in three pairs of socks, learning its shadows and corners in the darkness, too, until it's theirs.
He's quiet every time he passes the bedroom door, but not silent. He's here. He's fine. She won't wake up alone. Sometimes he pauses there and thinks about how Haruka can't sleep anymore unless it's in a bedroom, afraid of breaking the rules, and he wonders if they'll ever really get out of that hotel.
When the door opens, he's just about to walk the corridor again. He stops, silent, then exhales as he releases a tension he didn't even know he was holding.
Dave lets go of the poor, ragged edge of his arm-warmer and holds his hand out to Meridiana.]
Hey.
[It was always going to be like this.]
We can make hot chocolate.