He is drunk, his hand still clasped around the bottle of whiskey or scotch or whatever the hell it is he drinks nowadays. He has always preferred hard liquor. Hard liquor for a hard man, he always says to her. But he isn't hard, in fact she knows quite well how sensitive this man could be. He knows it just as well; he is complicated, not cruel. She's crueler than she wishes to be. She gained the complex when she was in training, or maybe it was in the war.
Putting aside the woman she is, she lets him stumble against the wall, catching him moments before he slides to the ground. It hurts her to see him this way, and kills her even more that he doesn't come to her before this state. But she can't be picky in the ways he chooses to communicate with her. The fact that he appears in front of her makes her head pound and her pulse quicken. It shakes her down to the core to see him this way, and she wishes he could be strong, wishes she can make him strong like he claims she does.
He mutters some none sense about how he's sorry and how he wishes she would move on. She shivers. He kisses her. And she isn't sure what to do, but the smell of him is in her nose and she's sure he smells like ashes. And blood. And sand. And Ishval.
He tastes of Brady and that answers her question of what type of drink he's been drinking these days, but it doesn't matter anymore. His hands are in her hair and somehow they move to her waist. She falls into him for a moment, letting her body be touched by his gloved hands. Letting her body get the best of what she knows is right. He's losing her now as she pushes away, her mouth sobering him.
"Sorry, Lieutenant." He mutters, his fingers slightly caressing her wrist in apology. Then he retreats, falling upon her couch before letting the demons of sleep take him. The cold seeps into her and she hushes her heart, pushing back the tears threatening her eyes. She steps away, pulling out his extra uniform she had left in the closet.
It had appeared after he had come in the night, clinging to the grit of her door, unable to be alone in his moment of weakness. It was her job to make him look presentable. It was her job to wash and press his blue uniform. This meant replacing the one being taken with one that looked just as prim and edged as the last. This was her distraction from him. From his form on the couch, and the eyes that follow her as she works, pulling his boots from his heavy feet and lining them neatly at the front door next to her own. His eyes loiter upon her, half lidded and his mouth pressed shut in a line of drunken disapproval of himself.
His greatcoat comes off next. She forces his shoulder up and pushes him back, not as gentle as she wishes she would have, although she knows its not a situation to be gentle. He is broken. She knows this, but choses to ignore the fact until these nights. And she thinks maybe he does too. She drapes a blanket over his chest, feeling too tired to situate him on the couch.
It's another sleepless night, her back against the wall and the crisp, clean sheet rough against her. She's hot, but when her cover escapes, she's cold. Her discomfort causes her to flee the bedroom, fully dressed in uniform before she laces her boots. She plans on an early start to the work day, maybe get his work done that he hasn't finished. Because he never finishes. He stirs when she opens the door, grumbling about being safe, he turns over, and she leaves.
She wonders what he thinks when he wakes and finds himself alone once again.