She grieves for the knife in his chest that won't ever truly fade away or dull down, and he just accepts that it will live there and he would have to pretend through gritted teeth that it doesn't exist at all in those moments that he was still trying to be a good friend.
He hates that he's made her cry over him, but Wayne knows that trying to tell anyone what they should feel is the very last thing he should be doing. So he just gingerly wraps his arms back around her, and lets his cheek lay against her head, self-soothing as much as trying to be a comfort.
"Whatever it is, it needs to stop," he mutters, trying and failing not to sound bitter. His hands briefly move against her back, as if to start to gesture, before thinking better of it. With as much trouble as he's been having with his illusions, he doubts that he's going to be able to curl up as a cat-shape. Knowing his luck, he'd become Old Wayne again and squash her.
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He hates that he's made her cry over him, but Wayne knows that trying to tell anyone what they should feel is the very last thing he should be doing. So he just gingerly wraps his arms back around her, and lets his cheek lay against her head, self-soothing as much as trying to be a comfort.
"Whatever it is, it needs to stop," he mutters, trying and failing not to sound bitter. His hands briefly move against her back, as if to start to gesture, before thinking better of it. With as much trouble as he's been having with his illusions, he doubts that he's going to be able to curl up as a cat-shape. Knowing his luck, he'd become Old Wayne again and squash her.