He looked so normal, so calm. For the heat he often took over his breakdown, Rose knew how much better he was doing. He'd come a long way and she was proud of him. Maybe he'd never be fully recovered from his best friend's death and really, she didn't blame him. Few understood what it was like to lose someone multiple times. She was on three, after all. And while yes, she'd picked herself back up and kept moving, it was hard. She'd thrown herself into her work, into the Center, into her friends' lives and most recently, into her newfound relationship with Guy. Always moving, never stopping, because when she did stop, the hurt kicked in.
John handled differently. And that was okay. Frankly, so long as she never again found him there, holding a gun, intending to use it on himself, she was fine. Let him heal how he wanted. And if she did find that, if he did reach that point, screw everyone. She'd help him all over again. Because he took care of her when she needed it and vice versa. It was called being a friend, after all.
Well. Friends didn't typically pull guns on their friends, did they? And John was, in fact, holding a gun on her. This was...awkward. And not the way she'd intended to start her morning. It was rare that Rose was unarmed. She had three different handguns in her possession. One stayed in the glove compartment in her car, one stayed by her bedside, and one stayed in the holster that usually sat at her hip. None of them were part of her pajamas, which she was still wearing. Dammit. Not that she had any intentions of shooting her friend. But some self-defense just then might've been nice.
"John, what the hell?" she asked slowly and quietly. She stepped backwards, hitting the wall, and realizing she couldn't get away if she needed to. Dammit again. "Any particular reason you're kicking me out? And if you hate when I leave dishes in the sink that much, you could've just said so."