TUMBLR DUMP...
He smells like ash and gun metal. There is a fine grit coating his skin. Nothing is left of his hard defences, he's a shaking tangle of limbs cleaving to her tightly. She asks but he won't answer. In the end all she gets is agreement to let her take care of him which she does with careful hands and decerning eyes. His jaw never stops quivering and neither do his hands.
He has a sudden moment of panic… What if its all the bread what if none of it is him? What will she think when this wears off and she's living with a monster?
It was a barely kept secret, his favorite thing to do was roll up under the covers and sleep. Better than cards. Better than shooting. Better than drinking or beating it out in the shower. Sleep brought dreams of more and better… Sleep brought images of her , and before her, it brought fodder for the shower. Now, sleep forgets to bring its presents, and picked up a little Hell to share.
He keeps telling himself not to be jealous, that there's no reason. But watching affection between them, innocent and innocuous as it probably is, makes his blood boil. Touches like that - on her back, her arm, his fingers splayed out between her shoulder blades as they walk - they mean nothing here, but everything to him. What's worse, even the slightest flick of his finger against her hand could have them both out on the street because no touch is casual for him.