He is a not-quite self-contained storm, resentment not meant for her and other things that she cannot begin to fathom having known him for a mere fraction of time brewing and bleeding at his edges. In reaction to her willingness to accommodate him he becomes yet more accommodating, an underlying tension as he asks her to take up space. Insists. Rather than have her curated around him, he seems to need something tangibly other than himself, a sort of anchor, perhaps. A relief from the storm. No doubts of whether she's the right person for this role enter her mind; she is already here, and she will not turn her back on him.
"Alright." A customary single nod. There is no obvious change about her, but something in her presence becomes somewhat more, seems to draw a bit closer. "Well, there are a few things I should bring in so I can get settled."
The room upstairs is hers, and she does indeed make herself at home. It's immediately apparent that the dogs will be the easiest part of her stay, not because Will is belligerentâhe is indeed an agreeable client, as much as he can affectâbut because they are so shamelessly joyful to have her. Dove learns their names and personalities and how to prepare their meals, and they run with her like a wave through the dark, misty mornings. Spaced throughout the rest of the day she does her best to go on two or three more long walks with them around the property, interspersed with quick outings as they request or for bursts of play. It is a pleasure to watch them with her, and of course Will maintains his own time with them as well, steadfastly regular in their training and joining them on walks when he can. In fleeting moments it seems to Dove that Will almost finds a kind of peace among them, especially when in the evening field of tall grasses, though it never lasts. It is clear that rest does not come easy to him.
The bare bones of Will's own schedule that he provides her with puzzle-pieces neatly together with the dogs', and there is ample time for other duties: cooking, cleaning, laundry, occasional shopping trips. She discovers the garden and begins tending it, is intrigued by the lures he makes, becomes acquainted with the bookshelves, and there are times of companionable silence as they each read together. True to his word he adjusts to Dove existing in his space, something he bears more gracefully, less gritty, than her assistance in his more personal routines. It's obvious that he values what independence he can salvage, clings to it with the white-knuckled grip of a man adrift. This close to drowning. Dove does her best to balance respect for this while also trying to ensure that he doesn't overexert himself. She is eternally patient, steadily professional, not cold but courteous and efficient; she does not tiptoe around but moves mindfully with quiet assurance. Still, despite all efforts, things inevitably come to a head sooner rather than later with the sound of shattered ceramic followed by a thud that puts ice in her spine.
The dogs reach him first but Will keeps them at bay with a word, and though they whine and pace they remain out of range of the sharp fragments of mug scattered on the floor. Dove moves through the pack to grab a clean rag, kneeling by Will's side and taking his hand in hers to inspect the cutâa slice not long but deep, although the shard that caused it does not remain inside the wound, lying crimson-edged on the linoleum among fat spatters of blood. She presses the cloth into his palm, curling his fingers over it with her own, a gentle but firm pressure. Examines first the shirt over his abdomen for any trace of bleeding, of which thankfully there is none. Looks then into his stubborn, contrite face. He is sorry.
It's clear in her gaze that she does not blame him, but though she wants to tell him it's alright, she cannot truthfully say it. He is too reckless with his own well-being. She wonders if perhaps this is a trait all FBI agents share, but suspects that even if it is, Will is still more so than the average. What can she do? She is not his doctor, nurse, nor mother, in no position of friendship.
"...I forgive you," she says quietly, and means it. "But, Will. I need you to let me do my job. You don't have to bear it with a smile; curse it, if it will make it any easier. There is nothing that will make me feel offended or think any less of you."
After another moment she releases his hand and sets about cleaning up the mess before positioning herself to help him carefully up. "How are your stitches?"
