(Angela stares out at the gloom of their surroundings dully, and she nods slightly as Henry tells her heāll shower after her. He still sounds a little shaken, although she canāt blame him - she probably sounds much the same. Her breath hitches with emotion as the tall blonde shifts to hold her close, pressing a kiss at her ear, and Angela is struck by the thought of how comfortable it feels to be in the moment and to be held by the person only pretending to be her husband and she his wife. Perhaps itās just the sense of satisfied exhaustion, but it feels almost right.
Itās especially silly, really, given that everything is most certainly not right, and that Angela shouldnāt even be here in Henryās arms, not like a wife, in any case, or at all, inā¦ in that unspoken third partyās case. But all the same, she doesnāt feel like she wants to cry like she wanted to last time.
Sheās very lucky that Henry is eager to excuse as much as she wants to, if not more so. The way theyāre talking they might have just been up talking for too late into the night rather than anything more physical and unforgivable. She only nods in reply and listens to him stammer on as he agrees with her and stumbles over her vague suggestion they retire together. Itās not what they should be doing, but itās what she feels like she might want to do, If only what she should do and what she wants were one and the same, things might be much easier.)
"Y-yes, I think rest mightā¦ might do the two of us some good."
(It does feel wrong saying all of these things when sheās still naked and on top of him, but itās strange how easy it is to feel disassociated with everything but still feel very much in the moment, so to speak. She should probably go and bathe now, try to soak her shame away and try to wring back some semblance of normality, but Henryās arms are still around her, and the air of longing is still making her movements thick and heavy.)
ā¦ Do you perhaps thinkā¦ this is what itās like forā¦forā¦ couples that arenāt pretendingā¦? N-not thatā¦ Iām saying anythingā¦ j-justā¦just this, I meanā¦
(Henry, as always, is finally the one to break the silence, but his usual layer of capability seems to falter as he asks her if what theyāve done - what theyāre like - if any of this might be normal in some circumstance. It catches Angela off guard, and she withdraws slightly, unable to look at him and instead directing her gaze to somewhere over his shoulder. The problem is that this is probably exactly what itās like for proper married couples, what it should be like for normal people existing in just another normal evening. But Angelaās - and likely Henryās - guilt is too severe to ever truly relax into that kind of normality, and thereās a very real fear that thisā¦ that this could be comfortable. That in time they might forget- forget about-)
"Iā¦ I suppose it might be. I canāt reallyā¦ Iām not sure."
(Is he looking for validation? Or does Henry really just not know? Angela doesnāt really know herself, everything about their coupling isnāt easy to describe.)
"ā¦I think it might beā¦ what itās like forā¦ for people who arenāt justā¦ just waiting. But Iā¦. I suppose itās just not something we can think about."
(She leans forward to press a slightly uncertain kiss to his mouth, and she lingers there for a few moments. it would be nice, she thinks guiltily, to just have a normal life without all the waiting.)
"ā¦thank you. Iām not sure I could do any of this without you."
(He's silent as Angela replies to him, though he instantly regrets asking the question. It's a difficult one to answer, and Henry has no idea how he'd go about answering it himself. In any case, Angela does manage, and Henry isn't sure what he wanted to hear.
He doesn't think it was that. Despite this week, that's both gone so fast, and yet gone so slowly, they are still two people that are waiting. When they return to Monte d'Or, everything will return to normal. Lingering on this vague, wistful wants isn't something Henry can do. Angela wants Randall, and she will always want Randall, her refusal to move on says it all. Henry is both comforted and horrified by the prospect. On one hand, the betrayal is so much worse this way, but on the other, perhaps they can get back on track with more ease. Once they return, everything will fall back into place, and perhaps they can pretend nothing happened.Ā
He really doesn't want that.
He's thankful for the darkness, though he holds Angela a little tighter. There's a sudden urge to sob, of course he doesn't, that would be uncomfortable as hell, though he feels wetness prick at his eyes at the kiss all the same. God he wants Randall back, he needs his lost friend to cure him of this infatuation, this stupidity. He... he just wants things to be back the way they were.Ā
This feeling, this aching adoration he's feeling for his faux wife for the first time, hurts terribly. Stings deep within his chest. There's no denying it or locking it away in the back of his mind anymore. He loves Angela terribly, and he wants her to love him too. There's no running away from this plain fact now. God. Randall, where are you?
He wraps his arms around Angela properly, burying his face into the crook of her neck, swallowing thickly. There's a rising panic in his chest, but her soft scent abates it, and Henry finally manages to speak.)
"...I...I'm so sorry. I'll fix this. I promise."
