He imagines the paper anyway. He imagines there's a crisp leaf of paper sitting right next to him, and he swipes at where it should be with his hand, feeling his fingers brush against the carpet and it beats twitching intestines or charred eyes, and he charades crumpling it. He acts out mashing and turning the invisible paper into a wad, tight and heavy, and then he throws it. It's nothing. Nothing happens. But he thinks it might have helped, not that he would have heavily minded to tell her off.

Everyone was always so damned surprised. Good riddance. He takes a second to glare, another to sulk and look away plainly and shove away the flood of excitement that sparked in him. When he looks back up, it's to see she hasn't moved closer and to wonder why, and to hear the sarcasm and to twist his lips into a mirthless little grin. He was happy he was still alive too, after all. Happy that she was. "Happy to see you get along fine without any help," he says. It's dry. He lowers his legs and sets them off to rest to one side of him, and it's a chore and he's not sure Holiday can stand longer. She looked as beat as he felt but he wouldn't offer to share his hiding hole yet. "Been busy?" Just curious.

But if she decided to ever wander nearer, he wouldn't bat an eye. Not an ally didn't make her an enemy, in any man's mind. As a doctor, it was maddening. He had doctored enough for now, though. He was done with her, because it was too much energy to burn that he could save to focus on things like, say, "You know, I-" he was tired. He moved a hand in a small circle. He first decided against it, and then decided he'd best go on. "I like your gown." And little else.