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Mar. 7th, 2004 01:34 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsThe second night of exile, Wednesday March 3rd, in which Alison borrows Hank's bed for the night...
Because you always need the mini-marshmallows...
Alison trudges up the steps leading to the third floor, a pillow tucked under her arm firmly, the overnight bag slung over her shoulder. Heaving a long sigh she pauses for a moment at the top of the staircase, then looks around, nodded to herself before heading towards the door to Hank's room, dragging her feet the entire time. Pausing in front of it she looks down, lifting her toes up and causing the ears of her bunny slippers to flop cutely, then raises her hand to knock.
Soft classical music wafts around on the air inside, while the occupant does what setting up for the company he has decided to do. Hank has gone to... well, not really extreme lengths to clean the place up-- he's rather neat, as a rule. Well-ordered minds often giving rise to a well-ordered life and all that. But he spent some time removing little shedded hairs from various surfaces, and performing tasks specifically promised in his email. The pillows have been fluffed (and sheets changed), there's a tall thermos of hot cocoa on the low table in front of the necessarily-massive sofa, and Hank is just finishing an artful arrangement of sandwiches and cookies on a tray when the knock interrupts him. One might consider his preparations more appropriate to wooing his guest or some such thing, but the fact of the matter is that he's simply arranging a change of environment and a comfortable place in the world for the evening. Alison deserves such, in his opinion. He gives a short bound over to the door, pulling it open to admit the lady in question, with a broad grin fixed. "Entre, mademoiselle." It's an effect entirely ruined by the fact that he's forgotten that he put on an apron earlier. Some student at the mansion gave it to him some time ago, the 'Kiss the' portion marked-over so that it now reads 'Ruffle the Chef's Fur' instead.
"Mrf," is the only reply as she trudges in and leans, hiding her face against him and letting her bag slide from her shoulder slowly. "Mmrff mff..." she continues, heaving another long, downtrodden sort of sigh, shaking her head slowly, shrugging. Finally she turns her head to the side to say something he can understand, and stops instead, taking in the room - nose wrinkling a bit as she catches sight of the apron he's wearing, recognizing it only too well. A small laugh escapes her, soon followed by another tired sounding giggle as she tightens her grip on her pillow, trying rather hard not to cry just yet.
Hank's response is the only one immediately appropriate-- an arm draped over the depressed form, and a firm, teddy-bear-ish sort of hug, as the other arm reaches out to close the door. The giggle earns a quirk, and a puzzled expression, until he catches sight of the slightly frilly apron, and grins. Never been able to rid himself of his affection for the ridiculous thing. But here, too, it serves a purpose, albeit an unintentional. Moments pass, until he eventually decides to be the one to break the silence, in a quiet, low voice. "Come sit, my dear. I daresay you look like a quiet evening on the sofa and a warm mug in your hands. Decorated with little bears."
"Have big teddy bear here," she mutters a bit rebelliously, because just standing there and being hugged, for no other reason than because she wanted to be hugged and Hank knew that, was nice. Very nice. "Best hugs inna world," she continues, pout turning into a rather watery smile, shifting her grip on her pillow to hide her face there for a moment, blotting the tears away and pretending she never even considered crying. The effect of which is clearly ruined by the new tears rising to take their place. "Hot coco good," she finally says, a bit breathlessly, leaning against him while turning to look at the set up, nodding once in solemn approval. "Thanks, Hank. So much." Another wobbly sort of smile, accompanied by a sigh.
He's prepared to pretend the tears aren't there unless she changes her mind about shedding them openly. And despite the suggestion of sofa, and drink, and so on, he stays, put, arm draped around her torso. This is, after all, about her, so she shall be the one dictating how things progress as far as he's concerned. A smile, at the words, and he nods a little. "I shall bow to your expertise on the matter of hugs, as it far exceeds my own..." And then, after a pause, "No thanks are necessary, Ali. It's nothing you haven't earned and deserved many times over, believe me. But you're very welcome none the less. I do dislike to see you having such a hard time of it." She, put simply, deserves better than she's been getting. At least, in his opinion.
A small sound and she slowly curls up against him, still hugging the pillow to herself, leaning her head on his shoulder. "M'tired," she pronounces the word slowly and it is soon followed by a sniffle as she tightens her grip on the pillow. And then the dam breaks. "And it's never enough!" A sob catches in her throat and she wipes at her face once, before giving up even on that. "And Sam and I broke up, and that's ok cause we're still friends but I haven't been able to talk to Paige in ages and I have no clue how she's doing and I'm worried over so much stuff," a shuddering gulp for air and she rushes on, "and Betsy's so different lately and Miles keeps having those nightmares about being in cages and now Lorna hates me and-" another pause, only this time she surrenders to the tears entirely, crying softly.
With a frown down at the top of the sobbing head, Hank shifts his hand to attempt a soothing... well, petting motion, atop Alison's head, fingers running through the golden hair. It's not entirely surprising to see her break down to this degree, but that doesn't make him happy about it or anything like that. His voice, much quieter than it has been, cuts across whatever else there is even as he catalogues the list for later. "Shhh... Ali... You're doing the best you can. And the best you can do is enough." Hadn't he just said that to Shinobi, a mere night or two hence? He couldn't recall-- days were blurring together of late. "You're not responsible for everything that happens around here, you know. And you do more than any could ask in dealing with it all."
She merely nods through the tears, leaning against him tiredly, not even having the energy or desire to indulge in anything more animated. It doesn't take long for her pillow to become rather tear-stained as the grief and sorrow and worry have a chance at being expressed finally, while her thoughts remain her own for the moment, still. That she makes a better selfish and spoiled rock star than she does whatever she is trying to be here, or something of the sort. Because the latter is easy and she's good at it, no doubt about that. "Best isn't good enough," she murmurs finally as her crying starts to wind down, tugging at the pillow to try and find a dry spot to hide her face in, the soothing touch of his hand in her hair making the gesture half hearted at best. "Thanks Hank," she adds, voice strangling over the words.
A firm hug is given, and a smiling nod at the thanks. "You're welcome, my dear. You really are too hard on yourself... but I suppose you wouldn't be nearly such a joy to know if it were otherwise." He should probably know better than to try to alter her opinion on whether she's done enough... but then again, he also can't help but try to contradict the self-depreciation. It's rather painful to see her in a state like this, down where he's pretty sure she won't see that it is. "Still, it's good to get it out. Wouldn't do to have it stoppered up. Ready for that cocoa and some couch-sitting?"
"Cocoa's good," is the slightly stuffy-nose sounding reply, followed by a frown. "Ugh. Am stoppered up now," Alison mutters, aggrieved at the less than lovely sound of her own voice. She clings to him a bit longer out of reflex, not wanting to give him the comfort of the hug just yet, before finally uncurling a bit, letting go while wrinkling her nose at the sodden pillow in she's been holding on to as well. "Ugh." A quirk of the lips. "I'm so articulate right now it's scary." A pause. "D'you have those little floaty mini marshmallows for the hot coco?" she asks, giving him a hopeful look.
The question pulls an unforced grin from Hank's mouth, and he nods, chuckling at the almost non-sequitor feel the sudden shift in conversational gears gave it. "I laid in a small supply just for you once you said you were coming." He peers at the rather pathetic state the pillow is in, and looks thoughtful. "Just set it out on the bed to dry. I believe I have some facial tissues somewhere around the place... then we can settle in for the warm drinks." He gives a little nod as if to confirm all this to himself, before he gives Alison a firm hug and lets her go free, so to speak.
Carelessly, Alison swings the pillow towards the bed, not even bothering to look as it lands smack dab in the middle, flopping back on the couch instead, eyes closing as she takes slow, steadying breaths. The small moment taken to try and soothe herself soon changes to something else however, sleep stealing over her between one moment and the next, a small tired snore escaping her every now and then.
Pausing on his way back with a box of Kleenex-brand tissues, Hank peers briefly at the reclining form before smiling softly, and finding a blanket to cover her over, and a dry pillow to tuck under the blonde head for the night.
Because you always need the mini-marshmallows...
Alison trudges up the steps leading to the third floor, a pillow tucked under her arm firmly, the overnight bag slung over her shoulder. Heaving a long sigh she pauses for a moment at the top of the staircase, then looks around, nodded to herself before heading towards the door to Hank's room, dragging her feet the entire time. Pausing in front of it she looks down, lifting her toes up and causing the ears of her bunny slippers to flop cutely, then raises her hand to knock.
Soft classical music wafts around on the air inside, while the occupant does what setting up for the company he has decided to do. Hank has gone to... well, not really extreme lengths to clean the place up-- he's rather neat, as a rule. Well-ordered minds often giving rise to a well-ordered life and all that. But he spent some time removing little shedded hairs from various surfaces, and performing tasks specifically promised in his email. The pillows have been fluffed (and sheets changed), there's a tall thermos of hot cocoa on the low table in front of the necessarily-massive sofa, and Hank is just finishing an artful arrangement of sandwiches and cookies on a tray when the knock interrupts him. One might consider his preparations more appropriate to wooing his guest or some such thing, but the fact of the matter is that he's simply arranging a change of environment and a comfortable place in the world for the evening. Alison deserves such, in his opinion. He gives a short bound over to the door, pulling it open to admit the lady in question, with a broad grin fixed. "Entre, mademoiselle." It's an effect entirely ruined by the fact that he's forgotten that he put on an apron earlier. Some student at the mansion gave it to him some time ago, the 'Kiss the' portion marked-over so that it now reads 'Ruffle the Chef's Fur' instead.
"Mrf," is the only reply as she trudges in and leans, hiding her face against him and letting her bag slide from her shoulder slowly. "Mmrff mff..." she continues, heaving another long, downtrodden sort of sigh, shaking her head slowly, shrugging. Finally she turns her head to the side to say something he can understand, and stops instead, taking in the room - nose wrinkling a bit as she catches sight of the apron he's wearing, recognizing it only too well. A small laugh escapes her, soon followed by another tired sounding giggle as she tightens her grip on her pillow, trying rather hard not to cry just yet.
Hank's response is the only one immediately appropriate-- an arm draped over the depressed form, and a firm, teddy-bear-ish sort of hug, as the other arm reaches out to close the door. The giggle earns a quirk, and a puzzled expression, until he catches sight of the slightly frilly apron, and grins. Never been able to rid himself of his affection for the ridiculous thing. But here, too, it serves a purpose, albeit an unintentional. Moments pass, until he eventually decides to be the one to break the silence, in a quiet, low voice. "Come sit, my dear. I daresay you look like a quiet evening on the sofa and a warm mug in your hands. Decorated with little bears."
"Have big teddy bear here," she mutters a bit rebelliously, because just standing there and being hugged, for no other reason than because she wanted to be hugged and Hank knew that, was nice. Very nice. "Best hugs inna world," she continues, pout turning into a rather watery smile, shifting her grip on her pillow to hide her face there for a moment, blotting the tears away and pretending she never even considered crying. The effect of which is clearly ruined by the new tears rising to take their place. "Hot coco good," she finally says, a bit breathlessly, leaning against him while turning to look at the set up, nodding once in solemn approval. "Thanks, Hank. So much." Another wobbly sort of smile, accompanied by a sigh.
He's prepared to pretend the tears aren't there unless she changes her mind about shedding them openly. And despite the suggestion of sofa, and drink, and so on, he stays, put, arm draped around her torso. This is, after all, about her, so she shall be the one dictating how things progress as far as he's concerned. A smile, at the words, and he nods a little. "I shall bow to your expertise on the matter of hugs, as it far exceeds my own..." And then, after a pause, "No thanks are necessary, Ali. It's nothing you haven't earned and deserved many times over, believe me. But you're very welcome none the less. I do dislike to see you having such a hard time of it." She, put simply, deserves better than she's been getting. At least, in his opinion.
A small sound and she slowly curls up against him, still hugging the pillow to herself, leaning her head on his shoulder. "M'tired," she pronounces the word slowly and it is soon followed by a sniffle as she tightens her grip on the pillow. And then the dam breaks. "And it's never enough!" A sob catches in her throat and she wipes at her face once, before giving up even on that. "And Sam and I broke up, and that's ok cause we're still friends but I haven't been able to talk to Paige in ages and I have no clue how she's doing and I'm worried over so much stuff," a shuddering gulp for air and she rushes on, "and Betsy's so different lately and Miles keeps having those nightmares about being in cages and now Lorna hates me and-" another pause, only this time she surrenders to the tears entirely, crying softly.
With a frown down at the top of the sobbing head, Hank shifts his hand to attempt a soothing... well, petting motion, atop Alison's head, fingers running through the golden hair. It's not entirely surprising to see her break down to this degree, but that doesn't make him happy about it or anything like that. His voice, much quieter than it has been, cuts across whatever else there is even as he catalogues the list for later. "Shhh... Ali... You're doing the best you can. And the best you can do is enough." Hadn't he just said that to Shinobi, a mere night or two hence? He couldn't recall-- days were blurring together of late. "You're not responsible for everything that happens around here, you know. And you do more than any could ask in dealing with it all."
She merely nods through the tears, leaning against him tiredly, not even having the energy or desire to indulge in anything more animated. It doesn't take long for her pillow to become rather tear-stained as the grief and sorrow and worry have a chance at being expressed finally, while her thoughts remain her own for the moment, still. That she makes a better selfish and spoiled rock star than she does whatever she is trying to be here, or something of the sort. Because the latter is easy and she's good at it, no doubt about that. "Best isn't good enough," she murmurs finally as her crying starts to wind down, tugging at the pillow to try and find a dry spot to hide her face in, the soothing touch of his hand in her hair making the gesture half hearted at best. "Thanks Hank," she adds, voice strangling over the words.
A firm hug is given, and a smiling nod at the thanks. "You're welcome, my dear. You really are too hard on yourself... but I suppose you wouldn't be nearly such a joy to know if it were otherwise." He should probably know better than to try to alter her opinion on whether she's done enough... but then again, he also can't help but try to contradict the self-depreciation. It's rather painful to see her in a state like this, down where he's pretty sure she won't see that it is. "Still, it's good to get it out. Wouldn't do to have it stoppered up. Ready for that cocoa and some couch-sitting?"
"Cocoa's good," is the slightly stuffy-nose sounding reply, followed by a frown. "Ugh. Am stoppered up now," Alison mutters, aggrieved at the less than lovely sound of her own voice. She clings to him a bit longer out of reflex, not wanting to give him the comfort of the hug just yet, before finally uncurling a bit, letting go while wrinkling her nose at the sodden pillow in she's been holding on to as well. "Ugh." A quirk of the lips. "I'm so articulate right now it's scary." A pause. "D'you have those little floaty mini marshmallows for the hot coco?" she asks, giving him a hopeful look.
The question pulls an unforced grin from Hank's mouth, and he nods, chuckling at the almost non-sequitor feel the sudden shift in conversational gears gave it. "I laid in a small supply just for you once you said you were coming." He peers at the rather pathetic state the pillow is in, and looks thoughtful. "Just set it out on the bed to dry. I believe I have some facial tissues somewhere around the place... then we can settle in for the warm drinks." He gives a little nod as if to confirm all this to himself, before he gives Alison a firm hug and lets her go free, so to speak.
Carelessly, Alison swings the pillow towards the bed, not even bothering to look as it lands smack dab in the middle, flopping back on the couch instead, eyes closing as she takes slow, steadying breaths. The small moment taken to try and soothe herself soon changes to something else however, sleep stealing over her between one moment and the next, a small tired snore escaping her every now and then.
Pausing on his way back with a box of Kleenex-brand tissues, Hank peers briefly at the reclining form before smiling softly, and finding a blanket to cover her over, and a dry pillow to tuck under the blonde head for the night.
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