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Summary
“It’ll be fine,” Dale says, even though he’s not really sure of that. It’s another thing he tries not to make a habit of — saying things he doesn’t mean. But he just wants Harry to stop looking at him like that.
“I don’t know, Coop,” Harry says, voice a million times softer, goose-down all of a sudden. It knocks Dale upside the head, parts his lips on nought but silence, and Harry adds, “Just doesn’t feel right. But I got you, you know that.”
Dale does know. Jesus Christ, he knows; knows and wishes he didn’t because it makes stars burst in the empty space above and between his eyebrows, and the glitter dust debris falls down over all his organs and turns his insides into some sort of terrible bleeding disco.
“Thanks, Harry,” Dale whispers back.