It is, he thinks, not as uncomfortable as he'd expected, to stand here like this. He hadn't thought to reach for her until he did it; half expected, as he did, that she might pull away. But of course, whatever he's lost in losing her this time, it's not everything. He thinks of their clasped hands going off the overpass, the way she'd let him bully her into taking care of herself, into letting anyone else take care of her. That doesn't mean it's easy to predict when she'll draw back, when she won't be able to let herself feel it.
There's no way she's okay, not really, no more than he is-- no more than anyone could be in a situation like this-- but he lets it lie. Okay enough. Gotta be. What takes him by surprise, for a moment at least, is that she leans in against him instead of pulling away-- offering comfort, which makes sense, but accepting it, which is always the harder thing for Carol. Or so it seems.
It can't be fair of him to do this. Not this-- leaning against each other, offering and taking some solace in everything they have shared-- but keeping the secret. Puzzling through it is just a long knot of doubt. If she doesn't remember, it doesn't change the fact that he does, and if she'd feel unfairly violated by him knowing, wouldn't it be doubly a betrayal to hide that from her? Ignorance is bliss, though-- and she's worked, for the most part, to avoid learning too much about her own future. Whether that's different when it's in the past... And what if she's just carefully avoiding asking, the same way he is?
There's got to be something-- some idle old joke that won't demand too much explanation if it passes her by, or something. If she's expecting him to pull away, she's got a surprise in store. The thought doesn't even cross his mind. He doesn't think he would have, before Teleios. Not after everything, after Atlanta. In Alexandria it'd be her keeping her distance.
Hell, he should've let her snoop around the kitchen. At least he'd have probably managed to talk her into eating at least a little of whatever she made, and if she'd stumbled after cooking it, he might have some answers.
"Might could let you make me a grilled cheese," he murmurs at length, with all the warmth he can muster-- an obvious joke, perfectly casual, hopefully sufficient to lighten the mood if that's all it does (because the truth is he isn't even hungry), but he's thinking of a particular moment that maybe she'll recall.
(And if she does, well, maybe she'll be bold enough to say so.)
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There's no way she's okay, not really, no more than he is-- no more than anyone could be in a situation like this-- but he lets it lie. Okay enough. Gotta be. What takes him by surprise, for a moment at least, is that she leans in against him instead of pulling away-- offering comfort, which makes sense, but accepting it, which is always the harder thing for Carol. Or so it seems.
It can't be fair of him to do this. Not this-- leaning against each other, offering and taking some solace in everything they have shared-- but keeping the secret. Puzzling through it is just a long knot of doubt. If she doesn't remember, it doesn't change the fact that he does, and if she'd feel unfairly violated by him knowing, wouldn't it be doubly a betrayal to hide that from her? Ignorance is bliss, though-- and she's worked, for the most part, to avoid learning too much about her own future. Whether that's different when it's in the past... And what if she's just carefully avoiding asking, the same way he is?
There's got to be something-- some idle old joke that won't demand too much explanation if it passes her by, or something. If she's expecting him to pull away, she's got a surprise in store. The thought doesn't even cross his mind. He doesn't think he would have, before Teleios. Not after everything, after Atlanta. In Alexandria it'd be her keeping her distance.
Hell, he should've let her snoop around the kitchen. At least he'd have probably managed to talk her into eating at least a little of whatever she made, and if she'd stumbled after cooking it, he might have some answers.
"Might could let you make me a grilled cheese," he murmurs at length, with all the warmth he can muster-- an obvious joke, perfectly casual, hopefully sufficient to lighten the mood if that's all it does (because the truth is he isn't even hungry), but he's thinking of a particular moment that maybe she'll recall.
(And if she does, well, maybe she'll be bold enough to say so.)