He keeps it from his face, but Ginsberg's words - 'it's quieter this way' - throw him for a moment. That isn't right. Something about those words— Why did he say that? Why. Because he's Ginsberg. Because he always says too much. And because something here is out of joint. Lingering at the office isn't extraordinary, even wandering around in the dark isn't anything too unusual - Don had been doing the same, after all - but this urgency for quiet, and those...
All right, those eyes. There's something in them Don can't begin to touch but knows, somehow knows, something volatile and unspoken (and should remain unspoken, god help them if that, that whatever it may be called finds words), and they're no quieter than they had been the day he'd brought Ginsberg into his office. The weeks haven't been enough to bring calm, and who knows how many more might be necessary? The quiet. Why is Ginsberg concerned with being quiet around the office?
Don has his guesses. And it might be that Ginsberg still hasn't returned, not really. What was it he'd said, asked? When do you stop dreaming about it. How do you forget. Every sign suggests that Ginsberg hasn't forgotten and perhaps can't.
He should get out of here. He should say no. Should say he was just about to leave.
But.
But he does need to work. Or he should, he has nothing else to do, and this thing about Sunkist... Could mean something. Could become something, if he works at it. Something very small and almost worthless, but that might be all he can hope for just now. The hint of a good idea.
That's probably bullshit. And if it's truth, it's a truth he doesn't want to think too far into. (What it might say about where he is. How he's come here. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to think about what it means. Where to go from here.) There's something else going on here, as well. Something else he doesn't want to think about or admit to. It... Call it curiosity. That's easiest. It might not be true (isn't true, it's more or other than that, something that pulls at him something that has a chance of holding him and maybe maybe of getting under his own skin), but it's something he can stand to think.
He can stay for a little while longer. That won't hurt anything, right? And he could use a shot of caffeine right now. Something to shake him into wakefulness. (Something to carry him until he can start in on the whiskey in his office.)
So he keeps his gaze steady, eyebrows just barely raised. "Coffee. If you're making some."
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He keeps it from his face, but Ginsberg's words - 'it's quieter this way' - throw him for a moment. That isn't right. Something about those words— Why did he say that? Why. Because he's Ginsberg. Because he always says too much. And because something here is out of joint. Lingering at the office isn't extraordinary, even wandering around in the dark isn't anything too unusual - Don had been doing the same, after all - but this urgency for quiet, and those...
All right, those eyes. There's something in them Don can't begin to touch but knows, somehow knows, something volatile and unspoken (and should remain unspoken, god help them if that, that whatever it may be called finds words), and they're no quieter than they had been the day he'd brought Ginsberg into his office. The weeks haven't been enough to bring calm, and who knows how many more might be necessary? The quiet. Why is Ginsberg concerned with being quiet around the office?
Don has his guesses. And it might be that Ginsberg still hasn't returned, not really. What was it he'd said, asked? When do you stop dreaming about it. How do you forget. Every sign suggests that Ginsberg hasn't forgotten and perhaps can't.
He should get out of here. He should say no. Should say he was just about to leave.
But.
But he does need to work. Or he should, he has nothing else to do, and this thing about Sunkist... Could mean something. Could become something, if he works at it. Something very small and almost worthless, but that might be all he can hope for just now. The hint of a good idea.
That's probably bullshit. And if it's truth, it's a truth he doesn't want to think too far into. (What it might say about where he is. How he's come here. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to think about what it means. Where to go from here.) There's something else going on here, as well. Something else he doesn't want to think about or admit to. It... Call it curiosity. That's easiest. It might not be true (isn't true, it's more or other than that, something that pulls at him something that has a chance of holding him and maybe maybe of getting under his own skin), but it's something he can stand to think.
He can stay for a little while longer. That won't hurt anything, right? And he could use a shot of caffeine right now. Something to shake him into wakefulness. (Something to carry him until he can start in on the whiskey in his office.)
So he keeps his gaze steady, eyebrows just barely raised. "Coffee. If you're making some."