Klaus can't help the masquerade he puts on. It's like a second skin, something he slips into and forgets he's living there, even now, when Diego seems to try and pull him from it. But it's a safer place to exist, where the sorrow and guilt and hurt and confusion don't exist.
He reaches for the plate of sandwiches and sets it delicately on the tray. The soup comes next as he reaches around his brother for the pot, carefully pouring the steaming liquid into an empty, waiting bowl.
"Taking the food to her will yield better results," he chirps, giving the tray a tiny push toward his brother for emphasis, a little waggle of his eyebrows, a curve of his lips. "She'll eat in there. No convincing or coercion necessary. Scout's honor."
He's tired, and it hits him suddenly. Maybe it's because he's existed in this halfway state for weeks now, a frenetic balance between brother and uncle and brother-in-law, but never quite landing on Klaus. But he's been in worse states. He's been in worse places. He's not on drugs or drinking and even though his mind feels the farthest from clear, he has some modicum of control, and that's what matters here, isn't it?
"But by all means. So long as you don't actually wrestle her out of bed I think we'll be in good shape. She'd kick your ass in her sleep." He huffs a bit and reaches for the tray. He just has to get Allison back together again. The rest can wait, can't it? If they can get Allison back, then Claire might be happier, and with Claire happier, Patrick might look less worried, might sleep more, and things will get easier, right? Klaus doesn't much care what happens to himself, really, if he can keep the three of them safe, happy.
"I'm glad you're here," and the words tumble out of their own free will, relief so thick and palpable in his voice. He's surprised himself, really, and it shows in his face as he tries to backpedal. "I was running out of ideas." A swallows and huffs a little as he picks up the tray. "But brute force oughta do the trick, and who better than Diego Hargreeves?"
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He reaches for the plate of sandwiches and sets it delicately on the tray. The soup comes next as he reaches around his brother for the pot, carefully pouring the steaming liquid into an empty, waiting bowl.
"Taking the food to her will yield better results," he chirps, giving the tray a tiny push toward his brother for emphasis, a little waggle of his eyebrows, a curve of his lips. "She'll eat in there. No convincing or coercion necessary. Scout's honor."
He's tired, and it hits him suddenly. Maybe it's because he's existed in this halfway state for weeks now, a frenetic balance between brother and uncle and brother-in-law, but never quite landing on Klaus. But he's been in worse states. He's been in worse places. He's not on drugs or drinking and even though his mind feels the farthest from clear, he has some modicum of control, and that's what matters here, isn't it?
"But by all means. So long as you don't actually wrestle her out of bed I think we'll be in good shape. She'd kick your ass in her sleep." He huffs a bit and reaches for the tray. He just has to get Allison back together again. The rest can wait, can't it? If they can get Allison back, then Claire might be happier, and with Claire happier, Patrick might look less worried, might sleep more, and things will get easier, right? Klaus doesn't much care what happens to himself, really, if he can keep the three of them safe, happy.
"I'm glad you're here," and the words tumble out of their own free will, relief so thick and palpable in his voice. He's surprised himself, really, and it shows in his face as he tries to backpedal. "I was running out of ideas." A swallows and huffs a little as he picks up the tray. "But brute force oughta do the trick, and who better than Diego Hargreeves?"