The way Hudson said it's that simple raised the hair on the back of his neck, but before he could muster the venom to respond something in Hudson's demeanor had shifted; the anger fading and being replaced with distance. He might not have moved and his posture might not have changed, but Don Juan could practically feel him shrinking away, becoming inaccessible. An expression of panic flitted over Don Juan's face, which was fine since Hudson apparently couldn't stand to look at him.

"Hudson," he said. His tone had turned on a dime and now his voice was quiet, contrite, pleading. "Dean. I know. I know. I fucked up tonight and that's not fair to you. But I'm not avoiding," he said, making his way tentatively into the room — progress slow both because he wanted to gauge Dean's reaction as he went, and stop if he started to flinch back, and because he was trying so so hard to walk in a straight line. "I came back tonight, alright?" Unstated, but obvious: on the other nights, he hadn't. They may never have actually talked about where Don Juan had disappeared to those nights when he didn't come back, but he assumed Hudson had to know — which meant he had to see that tonight was progress, actually, even if only a minuscule amount of it. He hadn't disappeared for days; he'd disappeared for hours, and then he'd come back. Hudson had to see — "I'm trying," he insisted plaintively.

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