But So Are Lies
Rough day, quick drabble. All characters, explicit or implied, belong to people-who-are-not-me, and to whom I am grateful.
'What are you doing?'
For a moment she isn't sure either, but it would appear she has fallen asleep on his couch again. It is unlike him to ask questions to which the answers are so obvious. Then again, it is unlike her to fail to wake up before getting caught.
Mustering the energy to raise her head, she realises that it is barely dawn. He looks as exhausted as she feels, which explains his unusual monotone - which reminds her eerily of someone else's voice.
He looks slightly concerned, but she doesn't see it as she scrubs her hand over her face, moving to sit up. Her thoughts are fuzzy with sleep and consumed with the juxtaposed memory of an old acquaintance's persistent optimism and the gruelling depravity of the current case. He stops her with a hand on her shoulder and collects the small stack of files that was precariously balanced on her hip.
He nods, a concerned frown still wrinkling his forehead slightly. She waits, hoping he won't push, feeling she owes him an answer if he does.
'I put some coffee on with the kettle,' he finally offers, stepping back. She stands slowly.
'I'll let you go get cleaned up.'
He starts back towards the kitchenette. The reminder - in the tone and the concern and the lack of adjacency pairs - is finally too much and she gives in to the impulse to ask.
'Jane?' He turns back in surprise. 'Do you believe people are good?'
The frown comes back, weighted with a pause. 'I think people are complex. Do you?'
She shrugs, trying to shake off the despair of the night before. 'I want to believe.'