It hadn't been like this at the Avengers compound. There, he'd had his own room, a private sanctum where he could close the door and lock himself away from the others for a while. At least, until they became concerned enough that Banner would come in to check on him. But here he's open, exposed, and while Harley gives him space at times, it's different knowing that she is still there. Watching when he loses track of time, staring dumbly at the television while seeing none of it. Listening when he wakes from a nightmare, tangled in blankets and gasping for breath, unable to calm himself and sleep again without the warm embrace of mead to muffle his screams.
He's lost his temper once or twice, irritable beyond even his own understanding, resentful that he's being nursemaided and even more upset with himself for needing to be pestered into eating, or taking a shower, or getting out around the village, fully aware that he should and yet often unable to make himself do it on his own. He doesn't understand himself anymore, trapped in a cycle of apathy and frustration, and running under it all is the deep guilt which colors his every move, his every thought, reminds him that he doesn't deserve this kind of care. Not him.
But not every day is a wholly bad one, either. Though it's hard to get himself out the door in the first place, there are times when he's come back feeling... not whole, not healed, but less gloomy, maybe. Once he even let the sun come out, for a little while, making its slow loop around the horizon yet never setting fully. And there is something oddly soothing about watching reruns of some cartoon together, with Harley curled up in the armchair and laughing at the antics of the animated characters on the screen.
Today, he's making an attempt to comb his hair after too long of leaving it alone, grown long enough that it's snarled beyond the limits of his energy and patience to fix. He grimaces a little when she calls out, and jams his hat onto his head, uncaring that it will only make the problem worse in the end, before coming out to see who is calling on him now. One of his people, he assumes, up until he lays eyes on a woman he's never seen before in his life. "Oh. Uh... hello."
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It hadn't been like this at the Avengers compound. There, he'd had his own room, a private sanctum where he could close the door and lock himself away from the others for a while. At least, until they became concerned enough that Banner would come in to check on him. But here he's open, exposed, and while Harley gives him space at times, it's different knowing that she is still there. Watching when he loses track of time, staring dumbly at the television while seeing none of it. Listening when he wakes from a nightmare, tangled in blankets and gasping for breath, unable to calm himself and sleep again without the warm embrace of mead to muffle his screams.
He's lost his temper once or twice, irritable beyond even his own understanding, resentful that he's being nursemaided and even more upset with himself for needing to be pestered into eating, or taking a shower, or getting out around the village, fully aware that he should and yet often unable to make himself do it on his own. He doesn't understand himself anymore, trapped in a cycle of apathy and frustration, and running under it all is the deep guilt which colors his every move, his every thought, reminds him that he doesn't deserve this kind of care. Not him.
But not every day is a wholly bad one, either. Though it's hard to get himself out the door in the first place, there are times when he's come back feeling... not whole, not healed, but less gloomy, maybe. Once he even let the sun come out, for a little while, making its slow loop around the horizon yet never setting fully. And there is something oddly soothing about watching reruns of some cartoon together, with Harley curled up in the armchair and laughing at the antics of the animated characters on the screen.
Today, he's making an attempt to comb his hair after too long of leaving it alone, grown long enough that it's snarled beyond the limits of his energy and patience to fix. He grimaces a little when she calls out, and jams his hat onto his head, uncaring that it will only make the problem worse in the end, before coming out to see who is calling on him now. One of his people, he assumes, up until he lays eyes on a woman he's never seen before in his life. "Oh. Uh... hello."