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Description
she's sitting on the roof.

it's nearly morning, it's so late at night, and he's only just got in from work, and he had a really shitty day, and all he really wants to do is curl up with her and a film they're already word perfect on and enough popcorn to kill a lesser man, and rest his head on her shoulder and relax against her and steal all the popcorn until he can't remember what it was he was so angry about, or why he felt so damn tired, or how likely it is he's one more shitty day from a relapse.

but, well. his possibly impending relapse is nowhere near as important as her actual relapse. his problems are shelved, for the moment, for the sake of her, for just as long as it takes to put her back together. well practiced habit; he almost doesn't notice himself doing it.

she's sitting on the roof. it's almost five in the morning, and the sun's going to make an appearance anytime soon, and it's not really warm enough to be up here in only a t-shirt and a pair of (his) jeans, but she's never really cared about the weather in relation to herself. she's only ever been bothered about aesthetics, and the sky is clear and bright and she can see the stars - as much as anyone can ever see of the stars, in a city with this much light pollution - and, when the sun rises, she'll be able to see that, too. that's all she cares about. aesthetics.

he drops down next to her, not saying anything, not acknowledging that she's there. words are a mine field when she's like this. he can't trust her to hear what he means, and not some convoluted, twisted meaning she's invented. he can't trust her not to put words in his mouth.

she doesn't look away from the skyline. there's a plane making it's way up away from some distant airport, and there's a sketchbook and a handful of pens on the roof next to her, and there's ink smudges on her fingers and the skin just below her eyes, like at some point she was wiping away tears. she's sitting with her legs pulled up, hugging them against her chest, her chin rested on her knees. wound so tight, clutching at herself desperately, like she's in danger of shaking.

he's pretty sure there've been warning signs for a while. he's pretty sure they've both been too busy drowning in their own shit to notice each other's frantic, waving arms and cries for help. he's pretty sure he could have nipped this one in the bud, if he'd been aware enough to notice the fucking bud.

still. what's done is done, and she isn't as bad as she gets yet. he can still stop this. it'll just take a little longer, a little more. worse things have happened. he can sort his own shit out later. she's always been more important.

"it's always darkest just before the dawn." he says, quietly. she doesn't look at him, doesn't react in any way at all, but her shoulders relax, just a little.

he watches the plane make its way across the horizon, starts to plan the trip they'll take to the art gallery tomorrow (they both have work, but that's what sick days are for), feels her relax in the smallest of increments as time passes, waits for the sun to rise.

they're sitting on the roof. it's been a while since they last did this, which is a warning sign all of it's own. he's pretty sure they're going to start wearing grooves into the concrete at some point. the sun is rising slowly, casting light across her face. soon, she'll reach for her sketchbook, and that's his cue to start talking, and he'll tell her all about the shitty day he just had, and by the time the rest of the city starts to wake up, they might have made it to bed.

another shitty day, another shitty relapse, another night spent on the roof. it's not the first time, it won't be the last time, but it's the first time in a while, and that's good enough for him. she's sitting on the roof, not in a hospital bed, and that's good enough for him.

she's sitting on the roof. soon, the sun will start to rise. he can still stop this before it gets too bad.

that's good enough for him.

Description
she's sitting on the roof.

it's nearly morning, it's so late at night, and he's only just got in from work, and he had a really shitty day, and all he really wants to do is curl up with her and a film they're already word perfect on and enough popcorn to kill a lesser man, and rest his head on her shoulder and relax against her and steal all the popcorn until he can't remember what it was he was so angry about, or why he felt so damn tired, or how likely it is he's one more shitty day from a relapse.

but, well. his possibly impending relapse is nowhere near as important as her actual relapse. his problems are shelved, for the moment, for the sake of her, for just as long as it takes to put her back together. well practiced habit; he almost doesn't notice himself doing it.

she's sitting on the roof. it's almost five in the morning, and the sun's going to make an appearance anytime soon, and it's not really warm enough to be up here in only a t-shirt and a pair of (his) jeans, but she's never really cared about the weather in relation to herself. she's only ever been bothered about aesthetics, and the sky is clear and bright and she can see the stars - as much as anyone can ever see of the stars, in a city with this much light pollution - and, when the sun rises, she'll be able to see that, too. that's all she cares about. aesthetics.

he drops down next to her, not saying anything, not acknowledging that she's there. words are a mine field when she's like this. he can't trust her to hear what he means, and not some convoluted, twisted meaning she's invented. he can't trust her not to put words in his mouth.

she doesn't look away from the skyline. there's a plane making it's way up away from some distant airport, and there's a sketchbook and a handful of pens on the roof next to her, and there's ink smudges on her fingers and the skin just below her eyes, like at some point she was wiping away tears. she's sitting with her legs pulled up, hugging them against her chest, her chin rested on her knees. wound so tight, clutching at herself desperately, like she's in danger of shaking.

he's pretty sure there've been warning signs for a while. he's pretty sure they've both been too busy drowning in their own shit to notice each other's frantic, waving arms and cries for help. he's pretty sure he could have nipped this one in the bud, if he'd been aware enough to notice the fucking bud.

still. what's done is done, and she isn't as bad as she gets yet. he can still stop this. it'll just take a little longer, a little more. worse things have happened. he can sort his own shit out later. she's always been more important.

"it's always darkest just before the dawn." he says, quietly. she doesn't look at him, doesn't react in any way at all, but her shoulders relax, just a little.

he watches the plane make its way across the horizon, starts to plan the trip they'll take to the art gallery tomorrow (they both have work, but that's what sick days are for), feels her relax in the smallest of increments as time passes, waits for the sun to rise.

they're sitting on the roof. it's been a while since they last did this, which is a warning sign all of it's own. he's pretty sure they're going to start wearing grooves into the concrete at some point. the sun is rising slowly, casting light across her face. soon, she'll reach for her sketchbook, and that's his cue to start talking, and he'll tell her all about the shitty day he just had, and by the time the rest of the city starts to wake up, they might have made it to bed.

another shitty day, another shitty relapse, another night spent on the roof. it's not the first time, it won't be the last time, but it's the first time in a while, and that's good enough for him. she's sitting on the roof, not in a hospital bed, and that's good enough for him.

she's sitting on the roof. soon, the sun will start to rise. he can still stop this before it gets too bad.

that's good enough for him.