[The shower does him wonders, especially for helping to clear his head. He'll take a little longer than usual as he lets the water massage his head, the pressure of the water soothing. Of course... In the process he ends up thinking more and more about what transpired. Of how he woke up in the morning feeling oddly.... "Peppy" and trying on those godawful clothes. Of chasing after Valo in said godawful clothes and his behavior towards Ilsa...
Seriously, what he had been?? A child??? He wants to slam his head against the wall, but he refrains, instead letting out a longwinded sigh as he picks up the soap... And recognizing it as the scent that Ilsa uses. Normally this wouldn't matter, but this also spurs on other memories that he wants to slap himself over. He's already recalled them, but he really wish he hadn't. Wishing he hadn't acted in such a way that once more makes him question everything about himself.
What was real.
What was fake.
What was real but he didn't realize it.
The fact that this all happened towards Ilsa... Whatever more intimate feelings he might have aside, he still respects her as a friend and colleague. He can only be grateful she hasn't struck him down, though she had every right to. Really, he feels more guilty about that than anything.
His pride has certainly taken hits, but he doesn't care about what other people think. Ilsa on the other hand...
Seeing the towel waiting for him only sinks that guilt in further, and after drying up and changing back into his clothes, seeing her with that food prepared somehow makes it worse. She should be sending him packing, not taking care of him.
...
So while he is genuinely thankful and says as much as he joins her, there is that awkward silence as he continues to wonder and process everything. How this magic stripped him of his will and changed him completely. He's at least come more to terms with everything else—there's not much he can do but that, really. Dwelling on the rest of it won't get him anywhere, and really making a fool of himself while drunk is the least of his worries.
It's just Ilsa... And since she seems okay then... He won't press into it, either. He's not going to forget, that's for certain, but there's not really much more that can be said. He still can't answer the question she asked earlier—whether any of it was real.
Because he still doesn't know.
Still doesn't know if it was because of the magic and the alcohol or if they just helped those feelings come out.
...And perhaps because of that ambiguity, he's going to be stern right back at her.]
I won't be able to have one if I know I made you sleep elsewhere. I can sleep on the couch or even on the floor, it's fine.
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Seriously, what he had been?? A child??? He wants to slam his head against the wall, but he refrains, instead letting out a longwinded sigh as he picks up the soap... And recognizing it as the scent that Ilsa uses. Normally this wouldn't matter, but this also spurs on other memories that he wants to slap himself over. He's already recalled them, but he really wish he hadn't. Wishing he hadn't acted in such a way that once more makes him question everything about himself.
What was real.
What was fake.
What was real but he didn't realize it.
The fact that this all happened towards Ilsa... Whatever more intimate feelings he might have aside, he still respects her as a friend and colleague. He can only be grateful she hasn't struck him down, though she had every right to. Really, he feels more guilty about that than anything.
His pride has certainly taken hits, but he doesn't care about what other people think. Ilsa on the other hand...
Seeing the towel waiting for him only sinks that guilt in further, and after drying up and changing back into his clothes, seeing her with that food prepared somehow makes it worse. She should be sending him packing, not taking care of him.
...
So while he is genuinely thankful and says as much as he joins her, there is that awkward silence as he continues to wonder and process everything. How this magic stripped him of his will and changed him completely. He's at least come more to terms with everything else—there's not much he can do but that, really. Dwelling on the rest of it won't get him anywhere, and really making a fool of himself while drunk is the least of his worries.
It's just Ilsa... And since she seems okay then... He won't press into it, either. He's not going to forget, that's for certain, but there's not really much more that can be said. He still can't answer the question she asked earlier—whether any of it was real.
Because he still doesn't know.
Still doesn't know if it was because of the magic and the alcohol or if they just helped those feelings come out.
...And perhaps because of that ambiguity, he's going to be stern right back at her.]
I won't be able to have one if I know I made you sleep elsewhere. I can sleep on the couch or even on the floor, it's fine.