| Narrative + Open Spam |
[27 Apr 2016|08:43pm] |
Everything hurts, but the drugs they’d given him are strong and opening his eyes is a struggle. Still, he knows he needs to and he struggles, managing to open them just a little to see a familiar face gazing at him. His lips curve into a smile and his eyes close again.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” she greets quietly, a soft, worried smile on her lips as she shifts closer, sitting on the very edge of her chair.
“...time is it?” he murmurs.
“Just past four. PM,” she adds after a moment.
He exhales, nodding just slightly and letting his eyes stay closed. “Didn’t mean to sleep this long.”
Lydia remains silent for a moment, then reaches out and covers his hand with hers, wrapping her fingers gently around his. “You needed the rest. How are you feeling?”
He’s quiet for a moment, but curls his fingers around hers. His fingers are still cold, but a little warmer than the last time she’d been holding his hand. “Feel like I’ve slept a year and...could conceivably sleep for another,” he confesses.
“I think a few people would protest that.” When she speaks this time, her voice is a little thicker with emotion.
His hand tightens around hers just a little, his chest tightening at the same time. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
She remains silent for a moment and then, she suddenly moves to sit down on the edge of the bed, setting their hands over her lap. “Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
He shifts a little, resting his forehead against her leg and closing his eyes again. “I think I do.”
“No, you don’t. You’ll have to trust me on that, okay?” she whispers quietly, lifting her other hand to brush at his hair gently.
He exhales slowly as she cards her fingers through his hair, her touch light and tender. Hot tears sting his eyes as grief takes hold of him, making his chest feel tight. A couple of them manage to squeeze out of the corners of his eyes and trickle down his cheeks.
[Open Spam -- Glader House/Out and About in Town]
Thomas wakes up feeling like he can't breathe and clasping a hand to his chest. He looks around the dark bedroom, heart pounding hard and fast. He rubs a hand over his eyes before pushing himself off the mattress and making his way toward the window. In the distance he can see the faintest hint of light -- the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon. He exhales and makes his way to the closet, changing quickly into a pair of jogging pants and a t-shirt. An early morning run is the best way he can clear his head. Hopefully.
He makes his way out of the bedroom, down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the door, lacing up his shoes and heading out of the house quietly so he doesn't wake anyone who isn't already awake themselves.
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