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He grimaces. It sounds good on paper, but although he can’t quite reason the whole of it out, something in him says that this idea has a chance of going very maladaptive very quickly. He does enough ‘everyone would be so upset’ as it is without the negative weight of becoming an oathbreaker on top of that. Doesn’t need more equating his survival with avoiding disappointment.

“N… no, I don’t…” He hesitates. There… there still has to be something, right? There has to be. And—look at her. He can’t just leave her with nothing. There’s enough helplessness going around the ship already.

“… Maybe just for a while. And—and then we can see how that feels…?”

He grimaces, and before his mouth even begins forming the word no, her heart sinks in her chest like a stone in water, settling cold and still and very far away.

I'm not the wise and gentle lady on her throne, she remembers saying to Erin once. I'm not the Everlight.

She's never wanted so desperately to be what she's not.

Maybe she shouldn't even be trying to help. Maybe she's a fool for thinking she ought to. Maybe there's nothing that could help, nothing she or anyone else could do, and trying will only make things worse --

(I have strong reasons, she told Darcy not long ago, to be wary of despair.)

"Suppose," she says, and it comes out almost inaudible, and she tries again. "Suppose I told you to come talk with me again, in a week's time. Nothing more than that, for now."

Nothing more than a commitment, on his part, to still be here in a week.

Phil... nods. He turns, and his gaze isn't pointed at her at all, but it is at the floor near her feet. "One week, for now."

She nods in turn, and struggles not to feel wretched about it. One week. One week isn't nothing. Especially not when everything might change, at any moment.

"I don't know how to help you get rid of him," she says, very low. "I'm sorry. I've never been able to get rid of Delilah either."

Phil sighs and turns to lean sideways against the wall. He looks all a bit like a dying bird in the sun. Or maybe he just feels that way.

Especially as she says that, he is made all too shamefully aware of how much he is being, how much space in the lives and burdens of others he’s taking and how heavy it is, how much of a drag he’s become. And they keep inviting him in anyway. What mercy.

“You don’t have to do everything. It’s only been… what, a month? I just needed… something. Anything.”

He must tell someone else. If not Fever, then someone. Cassandra shouldn’t—can’t bear him alone.

“It’ll probably be something I live with for a good decade at l-least.” He makes a show of checking his watch. “These things’re… they’re measured that way. It takes that long. But I—hah—have to make it there, first.”

The way he says I just needed something, anything ... she wants to ask was this something?, and squashes that urge as flat as she can, recognizing in it the selfish desire to be reassured.

"I hope," she says instead, "I hope you know -- you understand -- that you can call on me at need. For whatever help I can be. That you have that right."

... Man. And all the usual barriers to asking despite offers still persist.

"... Sure. As long as you tell me when you c-can't help me any more. I mean it. The second I become too much, and you need t-to stick to yourself, even if it's not some horrible situation... tell me. You gotta say something, and you can take care of yourself, and I'll find someone else to pick up the slack. Okay? I... I'm never gonna feel safe if I don't know when I'm crossing lines."

She's quiet for a moment, considering that, going over it in her mind. Nods.

"I understand," she says. "I will."

He very nearly says you had better as an automatic response before remembering that he's talking to his boss.

"Good," he sighs, "good."

He shifts, wincing again. He moves, then... stops and goes back.

Phil holds out a hand. "Would you help me up, please?"

And it's visible to her, the moment when he decides to ask for her help, and it makes her throat ache again -- but for a better feeling this time, complicated and tangled and better.

"Of course," she says. And she straightens up to stand, sets her feet, and reaches to take his hand.

She's much smaller than he is, but not so much that she can't be a counterweight, pull with just enough force at just the right angle to help him to his feet.

He takes her hand and braces the other against the wall as he achingly pulls himself to his feet. He sighs as he makes it to standing, and looks at her.

“… Thanks. And, um… thanks for this…” he holds up the balm, “… Lady Cassandra.”

"You're welcome, Master Connors," she says, meeting his eyes.

(Things aren't wholly well between them, still, she feels -- but well enough for this at least.)

"I hope it does you good."

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