He really does not know what to do with her. He does not understand why volunteering at the local high school should make her hostile and angry and, "I don't want to talk about this right now, Mr. Gold." In hindsight, he should probably have not reacted the way he did, but he is just as sleep deprived as she is.
"Well, we're going to bloody well talk about something." He had barked, and then she had run from the house, sobbing, accusing, hair flying behind her as she ran to the deluge awaiting her outside his home, "You don't understand, and you never will, and if I say I don't want to talk about it, I won't!"
He is looking out the window, watching as she crumples to the ground, clenching the grass in her fingers with her head bowed, slowly bending her head to the ground in what looks like a prayer. He can hear her cries from the house, above the rain that must be chilling her to the bone. Why is it that now that time is fucking moving, she regresses? It's not fair. It is not fair in the slightest, and he cannot tell if this has anything to do with waking in her bed. But she kissed him! And she had seemed fine, happy, if a little shy, and this isn't fair. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to help her. He wants to go out and drag her out of the rain, but he knows that won't help matters any.
Making tea seems the only logical thing to do at the moment. Perhaps chamomile? No, his own private blend with the lemon balm is what she will need, and while he's at it, perhaps he should have some as well. He is angry, and he knows he shouldn't be, but he is so tired. He does not realize that he is banging the cabinets about until he feels a small cold hand on his arm.
"I don't want to go because it just reminds me of that year. You know… the year I met Doyle and everything. I know you were trying to help… trying to give me something to do, you know, with the library there, but I can't… and I didn't want to talk about it." She is tearing up again, or maybe it's the water in her eyes. "Sometimes I don't want to talk about it, and I need you to understand that."
"It's unfair of you to be hostile with me. Just say you don't want to talk about it." He growls, and she recoils. It is then that he realizes her lips are blue (of course, she shouldn't have gone out in the bloody rain) and her teeth are chattering. She is soaked through.
"I said I didn't want to talk about it." Her voice is quiet but high, shrill, and she is curling into herself again. "I wasn't trying to be hostile. I just can't talk about some things sometimes, and you could be a little less horrible about it."
She is trembling, and he is cursing his mouth again.
"Have some tea." He pushes the cup at her, and she tries to grasp it, but it falls to the floor.
She jumps as it hits, her blue eyes wide and her hoarse voice whispering, "I'm sorry. Your teacup. I'm sorry."
He bends to pick it up, muttering that it is just a cup. When he rights himself, he finds her arms wrapped around his middle. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have to deal with me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
They stand there in the kitchen like that, her a broken record, and him patting her back, before he clears his throat. "Let's get you into something warm, dearie."
They are watching something called So You Think You Can Dance, and she is wrapped up in his flannel pajamas, the ones he only wears on very cold nights… like tonight. But it's alright because she needs it more than he does. She has been critiquing the dancers and laying her head on his arm, and they are cuddling underneath a blanket.
"We're alright, yeah?"
"Yes dearie, we're alright."