Klaus stills under her touch, surprised by ho gentle and understanding she is, coupled with the kiss to his forehead. It doesn't quiet the voices, the ghosts, but she grounds him and that's worth every second.
"God, I want that tub," he sighs deeply, the thought of soaking in a hot bath enough to spur him to move. He reaches for her hand and slides out of the bed with a groan, stretching for a moment, as though he isn't standing in the middle of a hospital, shortly after a near-fatal overdose. He gravitates toward the scrubs, having the decency to tug the pants on under his gown before he starts to pull that over his head. He's thin but not scrawny, some muscle left on his arms and chest by the grace of god, but there are valleys and dips around his ribs and narrow hips that nod to poor nutrition, or lack thereof altogether.
He wrangles the shirt over his head and sighs, running fingers back through his hair.
"The chariot awaits," he muses tiredly, the dark circles under his eyes telling. Hopefully she doesn't expect him to wait for a wheel chair or other nonsense, because he's stumbling toward the sliding hospital door immediately. He's not unsteady on his feet so much as his whole body moves of its own volition, as though taking up as much space as possibly as he sways easily.
"And you have an assistant now? Did we talk about this before? Are they hot? You deserved to have a hot assistant. Not hotter than you, don't want competition, but they better be pretty." He reaches for her hand, squeezing it when he manages to make contact, lacing their fingers together if she'll allow it. "God, I could fall asleep standing up."
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"God, I want that tub," he sighs deeply, the thought of soaking in a hot bath enough to spur him to move. He reaches for her hand and slides out of the bed with a groan, stretching for a moment, as though he isn't standing in the middle of a hospital, shortly after a near-fatal overdose. He gravitates toward the scrubs, having the decency to tug the pants on under his gown before he starts to pull that over his head. He's thin but not scrawny, some muscle left on his arms and chest by the grace of god, but there are valleys and dips around his ribs and narrow hips that nod to poor nutrition, or lack thereof altogether.
He wrangles the shirt over his head and sighs, running fingers back through his hair.
"The chariot awaits," he muses tiredly, the dark circles under his eyes telling. Hopefully she doesn't expect him to wait for a wheel chair or other nonsense, because he's stumbling toward the sliding hospital door immediately. He's not unsteady on his feet so much as his whole body moves of its own volition, as though taking up as much space as possibly as he sways easily.
"And you have an assistant now? Did we talk about this before? Are they hot? You deserved to have a hot assistant. Not hotter than you, don't want competition, but they better be pretty." He reaches for her hand, squeezing it when he manages to make contact, lacing their fingers together if she'll allow it. "God, I could fall asleep standing up."