InsaneJournal

Who: Claire C and Robin
What: Talking about playing death, maybe
Where: Claire's place
When: Some time in the afternoon


The first time he'd spoken to Claire in this way, it had been out of something akin to desperation. Though he would never label it that. His best friend, and his wife, had both, though unintentionally, left him feeling as though he had reason to speak to someone like her. The trouble with that was knowing deep down they were right, when he'd spent so long vehemently dismissing the notion that he needed help. When the majority of your time was spent focused on helping those around you, it was easy to turn a blind eye to your own problems. Easier to wrap yourself in the comforting blanket of denial. Here, though, he led a very different life. Here there was plenty of time when he had little to do. And it was in those moments that oft ignored feelings and memories clawed their way back to the forefront.

He had come a long way with her, and made a lot of progress. That was how she worded it. To him, a lot of it had been to do with Marian. He'd needed a way to tell her, and up until all too recently hadn't known how. Now that he had been able to share more with her, they had grown closer than ever. Up until recently, that was. Unsurprisingly (in hindsight), volunteering to take part in deaths sacrifice had not been a popular move.

Though it had involved bringing people to their ends, one of the hardest parts for him to accept in taking on the role of death was that such suffering still existed in the world today. He had given up more than many people might conceive to help the hungry, and the poor. And then death had transported him to a place where famine and poverty existed on a dizzying scale. Though rationally he knew that didn't change the good he had done, it was hard not to think of that as being of little impact by comparison.

So now he was sitting on the couch in Claire's apartment, eyes focused on something through the glass doors as she occupied herself with something in the other room, lost in his thoughts. His foot tapped a constant beat on the carpet until he became aware of it, and he put a hand on his knee as a physical reminder not to. Anxiety had brought with it a few habits the first few times he'd come to see her that he hadn't quite broken yet. It wasn't that he didn't like her, or truly appreciate all she had done for him. It was just that he never knew just what she would end up getting him to talk about, before he even realised he was doing it. That and he hated the notion that he needed help. He still hadn't been able to lose the feeling that somehow, it made him weak.