[ it's something she knows better than him. she'd even seen him leave once before and now he was back and she was here, enfolded into one of his nightmares that showed no sign of giving up. how did he get them out of this? he hates being here.
he has two memories of his daughter and this room holds one of them. he sighs and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and holds his face in his hands, tired and sad and angry but not at her. she was here and she was trying and he owes her so much. ]
I'm just so used to it happening that I'm expecting it.
[ he doesn't owe her anything and she doesn't want him feeling obliged.
people leave — and maybe that's just life. maybe the trick is to take the good moments so that the bad don't hurt as much. bobbi would like to think that she's good at that, but it doesn't always work.
sometimes, she gets tired, too.
she thinks if she were in his shoes, she'd be really tired — in general and in this moment, right now. ]
Why don't you close your eyes for a bit?
[ sleep doesn't really solve anything, especially not when there are nightmares — but sometimes, it's what gives enough strength to face another day. ]
[ a good idea. he's only hesitant because what if he closes his eyes and he wakes up in another nightmare like this. if he has to watch lorna take down that plane or watch himself get pulled back into the cartel life.
but he's tired and he doesn't want to face this place anymore. so, he leans back against the couch and, head propped up against a cushion and closes his eyes.
it doesn't take long for him to nod off, arms slack and legs stretched out in front of him. when he's sleeping, he doesn't feel dawn's loss as acutely. it's there but it's muted.
[ he falls asleep, even inside his dream — and bobbi stays and watches over him and eventually, her eyes drift closed as well and she fades from this dream, slides into another one that is hers alone and that she won't remember at all in the morning. ]
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[ it's something she knows better than him. she'd even seen him leave once before and now he was back and she was here, enfolded into one of his nightmares that showed no sign of giving up. how did he get them out of this? he hates being here.
he has two memories of his daughter and this room holds one of them. he sighs and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and holds his face in his hands, tired and sad and angry but not at her. she was here and she was trying and he owes her so much. ]
I'm just so used to it happening that I'm expecting it.
no subject
people leave — and maybe that's just life. maybe the trick is to take the good moments so that the bad don't hurt as much. bobbi would like to think that she's good at that, but it doesn't always work.
sometimes, she gets tired, too.
she thinks if she were in his shoes, she'd be really tired — in general and in this moment, right now. ]
Why don't you close your eyes for a bit?
[ sleep doesn't really solve anything, especially not when there are nightmares — but sometimes, it's what gives enough strength to face another day. ]
no subject
[ a good idea. he's only hesitant because what if he closes his eyes and he wakes up in another nightmare like this. if he has to watch lorna take down that plane or watch himself get pulled back into the cartel life.
but he's tired and he doesn't want to face this place anymore. so, he leans back against the couch and, head propped up against a cushion and closes his eyes.
it doesn't take long for him to nod off, arms slack and legs stretched out in front of him. when he's sleeping, he doesn't feel dawn's loss as acutely. it's there but it's muted.
he can deal with it for now. ]
no subject