Thomas will admit to being furious, but he won't admit to taking his frustrations out on Sophie. He can try and convince himself it's her fault they're stuck together, but it would be wrong to push all the blame on her. He could have kept his own phone, or not led her quite so far away. No matter how they ended up here, they're still trapped. He's still stuck, for god knows how long, with his student.
With Sophie.
Of course it's a romance film set, too. Why should he be given any chance at coming out of this with any semblance of dignity? It won't stop him trying. His defences roll down like shutters; shielding him with what he hopes is practiced ease. Given his luck it's more likely to be a shield full of holes for Sophie to exploit. Hell, they'd been away from the others for thirty seconds and he'd already nearly kissed her!
She's trying even now. To poke holes in his walls, that is. Every chance she gets, she takes. It's hardly surprising, but it is irritating. He's annoyed enough at the crappy circumstances without her prodding into his feelings.
She wants to talk.
Always.
Incessantly.
About him.
About them.
Thomas can't. He absolutely can't talk about that night. It eats away at his guilty conscience, aided now by Sophie's questions.
"It's not a date."
Maybe if he says it over and over she'll get the message. Or he will, and the fluttery feeling in his gut will stop.
It's not a date. It's not a date.
The nerves refuse to cease; terrified at the probability he'll have to do something he regrets. Something that will lose him all his self respect - not to mention all Sophie's respect. Or something that keeps her safe and simultaneously gives him heart palpitations.
He hopes to a God he doesn't believe in that he can find the middle ground. The safe space that allows him to not kiss Sophie nor have her hate him after this.
Silence is the answer for a few blessed minutes.
Till he has to climb a rose-covered trellis like some hellish Romeo and Juliet spoof, and she nearly falls to her bloody death. Till all the computers are fake, and the only food is stale bagels, and there's still no sign of anyone.
Silence doesn't work anymore.
So he permits her a question or two, narrowed down from 'everything.'
Feelings, she requests. 'I want to know about your feelings.' Thomas relents. Leaning forward to look her in the eye, he gives in. Lets her peer in behind his walls.
"I feel-"
The lights shut off and they're plunged into darkness.
Thank goodness.
His teeth clamp down on the words he's forgotten anyway. The last brick settles back into place in his walls with a sigh. Relief, not disappointment.
Obviously.
She argues and he snaps back and it feels normal, and finally he thinks he might come out of this unscathed.
Cold, but unscathed.
The bed laughs. Spiteful and mocking.
Of course. Why not a heart-shaped king-size?
This is the decision. Stark as the freezing air in the warehouse. He can let her sleep alone and have them both hate him. Or he can lose all sense and share the bed.
So he gives her his jacket and half the bed and tells the fluttery feeling in his stomach to go to hell.
He's long since stopped sleeping on sets; forgotten how suddenly the lights flood the room. The morning is an unwelcome, blinding reminder.
But they're free and Sophie's fallen quiet so he can't be too affronted. Maybe with a quick exit he can salvage his secrets.
The glint in Sophie's eye would tell him he's too late. Shame he doesn't notice.
A/N; I know they slept on the floor together in the game but that seemed like a waste.