[ He's on the couch — having immediately moved from the bed the moment he was mobile. Cushions and items have been arranged with an eye for his care, three square meals a day, no matter how slowly he eats, a pile of his books and the record player he lent Diana, which is likely taking up permanent residence in her apartment. Checking dressings, counting the time observing the healing. He'd prefer to be in some isolated area, some deep, dark hole he can crawl into then crawl out of once his wounds are licked — it buzzes around in his mind. ]
[ He's not good company. Still, Diana never expects a conversation. Just stays there, every day, without frustration. He wants to hiss and spit at something — can't. The silos fall quiet the moment he knows Tim's gone then — he just slumps quietly in his corner, the aftermath of some silent devastation. ]
[ In the evening, when she sits, he reaches for her wrist. ]
DIANA;
[ He's not good company. Still, Diana never expects a conversation. Just stays there, every day, without frustration. He wants to hiss and spit at something — can't. The silos fall quiet the moment he knows Tim's gone then — he just slumps quietly in his corner, the aftermath of some silent devastation. ]
[ In the evening, when she sits, he reaches for her wrist. ]