It was less about what Greengrass was actually saying, which Cash was having a hard time latching onto at the beginning even as he listened carefully, and more that he was talking. The lilt of his voice over the sound of the wind and the creek of the manor in darkness served as a reminder - that Cash was here, nowhere else, there wasn't any actual danger, and he had nothing to fear from the dead. Footprints in the hall, a rigged piano, a noose that popped out - this was all so real and practical and far-flung from things he half-remembered. He sort of wished there was more wine in him, but knew that wouldn't really help - might just ground him in all the wrong ways.
He latched onto Greengrass' hand before he could think about it, another real thing he could hold onto. He tried to avoid physical touch with men when he could help it; like there was something in him that would tip them off to his inclinations. And if they were so inclined, then it was dangerous for Cash to be involved - he had the sense that his mind was no longer a comfortable place for a legilimens to go, but that didn't mean he wanted to risk killing anyone else. (There were exceptions, like Felix Prewett, he could still be impulsive and he was so lonely, but he did not want to be responsible and any real feelings were risky.)
He couldn't afford to be picky now, though, kept a firm grip on Greengrass' hand like it was tethering him; still looser than his grip had been on the bottle. He was not sure he trusted himself to say anything; he didn't want to insist that he wasn't crazy until he was more certain he could say it with confidence, so that Greengrass might believe him. He felt like his eyes were too large, like he didn't have any of the disaffected air he sometimes tried to put on - he had spent more time with Greengrass already today than he usually spent with people, and maybe that made it harder to keep up enough walls to stop this from spilling out of him. Maybe it wasn't too late, though, or too terrible - Greengrass had offered a hand, after all.
They stepped into the little copse of trees before Cash trusted himself to speak again. "Thanks," he said. He had not let go of Greengrass' hand.
He latched onto Greengrass' hand before he could think about it, another real thing he could hold onto. He tried to avoid physical touch with men when he could help it; like there was something in him that would tip them off to his inclinations. And if they were so inclined, then it was dangerous for Cash to be involved - he had the sense that his mind was no longer a comfortable place for a legilimens to go, but that didn't mean he wanted to risk killing anyone else. (There were exceptions, like Felix Prewett, he could still be impulsive and he was so lonely, but he did not want to be responsible and any real feelings were risky.)
He couldn't afford to be picky now, though, kept a firm grip on Greengrass' hand like it was tethering him; still looser than his grip had been on the bottle. He was not sure he trusted himself to say anything; he didn't want to insist that he wasn't crazy until he was more certain he could say it with confidence, so that Greengrass might believe him. He felt like his eyes were too large, like he didn't have any of the disaffected air he sometimes tried to put on - he had spent more time with Greengrass already today than he usually spent with people, and maybe that made it harder to keep up enough walls to stop this from spilling out of him. Maybe it wasn't too late, though, or too terrible - Greengrass had offered a hand, after all.
They stepped into the little copse of trees before Cash trusted himself to speak again. "Thanks," he said. He had not let go of Greengrass' hand.
MJ made this!