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[midnightroads]

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Please see Opt-In, as contacting Bash may interact with his Scion abilities.

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[midnightroads]

"You don't know. I don't know either. I don't have a fucking clue." He lets the frustration leach into his voice like watercolor paint on a wet page, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry."

[not_the_last]

"I'm sorry too," she says softly. "I came looking for you because I wanted to help, and I'm only now realizing that I don't have any clear idea how to. I just ... don't want to leave you alone with it."

Because he's kind. Because he's in pain. Because he offered to walk her back to her cabin, after they brought Crichton's body to the morgue, back in October.

[midnightroads]

"How are you on touch? I could use a hug, but I get it if you're not the touchy type."

He could use more than a hug, but he's not about to ask anyone to just spoon him until he feels like a teddy bear instead of a person.

[not_the_last]

Without a word she scoots closer to him, and reaches up to wind both arms around his shoulders.

(Without a word, because answering the question how are you on touch would have to cover so many different things, none of which seem important right now.)

[midnightroads]

He just sort of crumples into her, burying his face in her shoulder. And starts to cry.

[not_the_last]

Oh. Oh, no.

What she feels, as he weeps in her arms, is an odd species of panic: I can't, I don't know how, I'll do it wrong. But she's here, and she wanted to help, and if this is what he needs --

So she holds him close, and out of some dim instinct rests a hand on the back of his head, and rocks back and forth with the smallest faint motion.

[midnightroads]

"Sorry cher, I'm prolly fuckin' up yer nice clothes." His accent's slipping--she's getting more Cajun out of him than he normally allows to show.

[not_the_last]

"It's all right," she murmurs, "it's all right."

And feels another pang of something oddly like despair for him: how can anyone reconcile a sense of duty that calls him to violence with a sensitivity so deep that he frets about staining someone's clothes?

[midnightroads]

Words stop happening for a bit as he just lets himself cry. Bash, he stomps down so hard on anger so often, he gets this calcified buildup of misery instead that eats him from the inside. Every so often, he must open the valve and let this out.

It's going to take some time. Sorry, Cass, you're stuck here.

[not_the_last]

This should be someone who's closer to him, she thinks -- but maybe with someone closer to him it would have been that much harder for him to get to this point. And he needs this.

So she sits there, holding him, occasionally murmuring it's all right again, at one point digging out a clean handkerchief and tucking it into his hand.