Klaus doesn't seem to notice her at first, his face buried into his arms, his knees pulled up. It's not unlike how he used to curl in on himself as a child, waiting for their father to open the door to the mausoleum and set him free. But he's not trapped inside an old, stone building in a far-off cemetery this time. It's his own body, his mind.
Trapped and cornered by the need to escape into something, to turn his mind into mush all over again and call it quits. But Allison's arms are strong and warm, they're very real and with her sitting beside him, he leans heavily into her, all but curling up on his side, his head resting on her shoulder.
"You can do a breathalyzer if you want," there's the mark of old bitterness in his voice, making the edges curl up and wither, but the heat of the words dies on his tongue, dissolving into a weak laugh.
Out in the corridor, there's the tell-tale thunder of Diego's boots, Pogo's weak insistence that things are just fine. There's an argument, a tension in the silence that follows before those boots clomp back up the stairs. If Diego could see through walls, he'd be burning a hole through the ceiling to see what unfolded in the sitting room.
Ben perches at his other side, not touching him, not talking, just sitting. Sitting in a position where, had he been corporeal, their legs might be touching, their shoulders. Small but present motions. You've got this, Klaus, he finally says and something about it makes Klaus' heart ache. He doesn't want to move forward, but he has to.
"Sorry," he says finally, weakly, his arms reaching to curl around Allison, hug her tightly as much as she is hugging him. "Dad always said I had a flair for the dramatic, right?"
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Trapped and cornered by the need to escape into something, to turn his mind into mush all over again and call it quits. But Allison's arms are strong and warm, they're very real and with her sitting beside him, he leans heavily into her, all but curling up on his side, his head resting on her shoulder.
"You can do a breathalyzer if you want," there's the mark of old bitterness in his voice, making the edges curl up and wither, but the heat of the words dies on his tongue, dissolving into a weak laugh.
Out in the corridor, there's the tell-tale thunder of Diego's boots, Pogo's weak insistence that things are just fine. There's an argument, a tension in the silence that follows before those boots clomp back up the stairs. If Diego could see through walls, he'd be burning a hole through the ceiling to see what unfolded in the sitting room.
Ben perches at his other side, not touching him, not talking, just sitting. Sitting in a position where, had he been corporeal, their legs might be touching, their shoulders. Small but present motions. You've got this, Klaus, he finally says and something about it makes Klaus' heart ache. He doesn't want to move forward, but he has to.
"Sorry," he says finally, weakly, his arms reaching to curl around Allison, hug her tightly as much as she is hugging him. "Dad always said I had a flair for the dramatic, right?"