"I'm going to need a burrito as big as my head, some aspirin, and maybe a couple of those weird chocolate, peanut butter wafer things with the hilariously inappropriate name. What, like, nuttybars? Who names a dessert nuttybar."
He takes her keys and looks at them, the suggestion that they are nothing if not a car ride away from being free of this place. A tiny part of him is tempted, really, to take the car and drive the whole route back to California, watching the apocalypse from the horizon.
He knows he can't, knows he won't. He loves his family, even for how fucked up they all are. But he pushes himself to his feet with a huff, not bothering with shoes as he steps over the puddle of alcohol, the shattered glass, and offers her a hand up.
"Or a puppy. Claire wants a puppy and I'll be just the best uncle in the world if I bring her back a puppy instead of handing her an apocalypse in a hand basket with a ribbon on top."
And once she's to her feet, he starts for the door of the sitting room, body sagging in a way that it usually doesn't, but he's trying. He slowly begins rebuilding the walls that crashed down in Vietnam, but for now, this will have to be enough.
Allison takes the act for what it is, but she plays her part, too. She smiles as he rambles about food, rolls her eyes when he brings up a puppy for Claire, and acts how they normally would if his world hadn’t been flipped upside down. She hates it, hates every second of it because she wishes it wasn’t needed. That Klaus hadn’t been taken, that he wouldn’t have been transported to Vietnam.
She wishes they wouldn’t have come here. Reginald didn’t deserve it, but they had come out of...what, duty? Duty is what almost drowned them as children, and now what fucked everything up.
As he leaves the room, Allison watches after him, listening for anyone that might intercept him or say anything. No one does, but it allows her to watch the way his shoulders sag, the weight of it all crashing on him.
One more day, she tells herself. They’ll stay one more day before they haul ass back to California. Hopefully by then this will at least seem somewhat worth it.
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He takes her keys and looks at them, the suggestion that they are nothing if not a car ride away from being free of this place. A tiny part of him is tempted, really, to take the car and drive the whole route back to California, watching the apocalypse from the horizon.
He knows he can't, knows he won't. He loves his family, even for how fucked up they all are. But he pushes himself to his feet with a huff, not bothering with shoes as he steps over the puddle of alcohol, the shattered glass, and offers her a hand up.
"Or a puppy. Claire wants a puppy and I'll be just the best uncle in the world if I bring her back a puppy instead of handing her an apocalypse in a hand basket with a ribbon on top."
And once she's to her feet, he starts for the door of the sitting room, body sagging in a way that it usually doesn't, but he's trying. He slowly begins rebuilding the walls that crashed down in Vietnam, but for now, this will have to be enough.
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She wishes they wouldn’t have come here. Reginald didn’t deserve it, but they had come out of...what, duty? Duty is what almost drowned them as children, and now what fucked everything up.
As he leaves the room, Allison watches after him, listening for anyone that might intercept him or say anything. No one does, but it allows her to watch the way his shoulders sag, the weight of it all crashing on him.
One more day, she tells herself. They’ll stay one more day before they haul ass back to California. Hopefully by then this will at least seem somewhat worth it.