Will lets out a deep breath that he didn't realize he was holding. His shoulders slump a little. He feels... spent. This amount of emotional effort has completely drained him. He's not used to it.
He wants to argue. You're wrong. I haven't changed at all. But he doesn't have the energy and anyway... Rosinante's right. How often has he caught himself thinking about how unlike him all this is? How strange it feels to be concerned about someone other than himself for once, to trust someone beyond mere necessity. At the start he could've attributed it to desperation, to his need for comfort in this unforgiving place. But it's gone well beyond that now, and he'd be in denial if he said otherwise.
Will cranes his head back to stare past Rosinante, not really at the stars, not really at anything in particular. He heaves out another sigh, though the end of it is something more like laughter.
"What the hell are we doing?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Look at us, two grown adults who don't even know how to make the simplest human connection. It's almost as if there's something wrong with us." Which is sarcasm, of course. There's a lot wrong with them. In this moment at least, he's not too proud to admit that.
He accepts the cigarette. He could really use it.
"I don't want to make any guarantees. I don't want to promise you anything." He forces the next part out before he can second-guess it. "But we can try. To keep this going, whatever it is, while acknowledging its existence. Neither of us know what we're doing, so at least we'll be on even ground."
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He wants to argue. You're wrong. I haven't changed at all. But he doesn't have the energy and anyway... Rosinante's right. How often has he caught himself thinking about how unlike him all this is? How strange it feels to be concerned about someone other than himself for once, to trust someone beyond mere necessity. At the start he could've attributed it to desperation, to his need for comfort in this unforgiving place. But it's gone well beyond that now, and he'd be in denial if he said otherwise.
Will cranes his head back to stare past Rosinante, not really at the stars, not really at anything in particular. He heaves out another sigh, though the end of it is something more like laughter.
"What the hell are we doing?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Look at us, two grown adults who don't even know how to make the simplest human connection. It's almost as if there's something wrong with us." Which is sarcasm, of course. There's a lot wrong with them. In this moment at least, he's not too proud to admit that.
He accepts the cigarette. He could really use it.
"I don't want to make any guarantees. I don't want to promise you anything." He forces the next part out before he can second-guess it. "But we can try. To keep this going, whatever it is, while acknowledging its existence. Neither of us know what we're doing, so at least we'll be on even ground."