He sits in one of the bleachers, legs kicked up on the back of the one in front of him, fingers laced in his lap and a frown at his lips as he stares idly at the ceiling. He's thinking (dwelling agonizing) as he always does when he has a chance to slow down; he can feel the Dog's breath on his neck and voice in his ear and it's getting louder (HaineHainelistentomeHaine-)
Footsteps.
Broken out of his reverie, he looks up and is only mildly to see a petite blonde angel making her way towards him with a determined set to her lips. He lowers his feet and watches her as she approaches, then thrusts out her hand.
What is it?
A bandaid.
"...Ah," he says, looking up at her with hidden bemusement. How did she...? "It doesn't look like it'll fit." She bites her lip and holds up one finger sternly (stay), then turns on her heel and hurries off. He blinks after her, staying put as told, and a few minutes later she returns.
She places another in his palm. This one is larger and on it is a clumsily-drawn red heart with black stitches down the middle. She watches him expectantly, and when his hand closes over it and the faintest of smiles twitches at his lips she beams with delight.
"Thanks," he says. He never knew they made extra big ones for heartache.
