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He'd clearly walked into something he could barely understand, but Dawson knew this much: if it caused someone to start breaking down in front of a stranger, it was a lot worse than it ever should have gotten. Maebe claimed she didn't need more friends, but frankly it seemed quite the opposite to him. Whatever had happened in the past didn't matter to him; what did matter was that Maebe clearly cared and strongly at that, and it was distressing to watch her want to destroy that part of her so badly.

"I'd be a real shitty friend if I left, hun," he replied gently. "This the sorta stuff that comes with the territory. Good n' bad."

He made a deliberate and slow motion to try and scoot closer, highly aware of her tension, the agitation behind the rub of her wrists. He slid a hand out of his pocket but it remained steadfastly at his side still.

"Ya don't gotta explain a thing t'me, Mayb. Keep yer secrets f'ya want. But don't do that to yourself," Dawson pleaded with a little shake of his head. "That's a Good Part've you, that's--that's not somethin' anyone ever gotta replace. That part's Important, y'gotta know that. N' it hurts, I-I know it hurts real bad when something matters," his heart still ached like a fresh wound when he thought about his family, like it did now, like that little lump in his throat waited for any excuse to rise, "but that's life, hun. It--S'got happy parts n' sad parts n' all manner've stuff in between. Point is ya can't just turn off t'some've it like a robot 'cause ya aren't one, n' if someone ever told ya this the way t'be happy all the time then I call their bullshit 'cause--'cause s'not how it works."

He petered out for a moment, lightly panting as though he had been jogging. His heart was still racing from the earlier scare, and the adrenaline was finding any and every way out of his system, and especially in the tremble of his visible hand. "F'it hurts this bad, don't shut yerself up here, Mayb," Dawson managed after a moment. "Please."

He had to get some credit: spineless as Dawson was, he didn't wholly back off this time. He shrank under Maebe's predatory gaze to be sure, flinched in preparation for more barbed words, but he stayed rooted to the spot and he didn't drop eye contact, even when he knew he wasn't a match and even when danger made every alarm bell left ring and every hair on his arms and neck rise. But he was in too deep. Maybe she was right, maybe he did need saving, but why did this necessarily have to be a rescue operation? Why and how did someone become so entangled and knotted and bunched that they became less a person and more a situation?

He didn't have time to consider it. Their lips met and he went under. He was still human and still very imperfect, still capable of cupping her cheek and inviting her closer. Maebe was right: she did know how to make someone special, and deep down for someone like Dawson that meant everything, especially after Chel. So he enjoyed himself for a stretch of time. But maybe it was knowing that it was a perfectly engineered skill she could give anyone that gave him the out he needed to eventually rise above the haze. Or maybe it was simply remembering, as much as it hurt him to, that he didn't deserve that attention, never genuinely and not for long. This was at best being pitied and at worst being used.

His hands did wander: one to Maebe's shoulder, the other blindly searching for a wrist to secure. An indulgence he could handle, but not more. If it were somehow possible to look even more downcast than before, then that was the look Dawson wore when he broke away and made to gently but firmly push her back. There were signs of reluctance--a kiss was a kiss, and under different circumstances he wouldn't have stopped--but he stood by his decision as much as his body protested it.

His breath was shaky, and he took a few moments to collect himself. "I-I wish I could, darlin'," he said, soft and a little hoarse. "Believe me, I don' wanna see ya hurtin' like this. Ya say there's nothin' good there, but I'd swear my paycheck there is, there always is. But yer not the Tin Man n' m'not the Wizard of Oz, Mayb. I can't prove nothin' t'ya if ya don' believe it yerself."

Similar to how the word chocolate was enough to cause a reaction for her, so did every invasive action, every snap and claw and pull, pile up and trigger. In and out: there was Maebe grinning like a demon, then there was a complete stranger with fists raised, cold clammy hands, unconscionable violence erupting, timid pushes and fearful pulls and a half-formed word of protest, Anna Marie Rose screeching and thrashing beneath his chokehold, the taste of something bittersweet, the sharp p***k at his lip, his strangled cry, the taste of blood, the taste and smell of blood--

Somewhere in his struggle Dawson remembered his legs. One shot out instinctively to force Maebe back, and in an instant the young man was crawling backwards and away, too shellshocked to try and get up on legs that had fallen asleep from being sat on. He stopped scrambling only when he collided with something solid, visibly trembling, his lips bleeding, his hat accidentally knocked off in his bid to find space. There was a wild and terrified look in his eyes as he stared through Maebe, but it only lasted for a split second as he then curled and pulled his knees up, hands plastered to the back of his head in lieu of the safety his hat provided, and buried his face into the space, murmuring between frantic breaths in a voice that cracked, "No no n-no no no n-no..."

There was nothing but tears and the shakes that came with, the same no blurring into nonsensical obscurity until it was just another noise, and then, eventually, not even that. Dawson curled even tighter into himself with a sharp gasp when he felt something touch him, exhaling another sob when he realized it was just his hat. He tugged it down hard for a few seconds, bending the brim and nearly yanking it off his head, and then fixed it, smoothed it out as best he could in silent apology.

Arms stacking atop his knees, he dared to peek over them with red-rimmed eyes, a sheen of tears on his freckled cheeks and a plaster of sweat-coated bangs to his brow. He should have felt ashamed for breaking down like that, but all he felt was cornered and scared and confused.

(A mistake, they said. He was starting to understand why they might think so.)

Words were lost on him. He stared at Maebe as another tear trickled down, sniffling and licking blood from his lips.

The state of cornered and scared and confused was exacerbated and it showed by the way his eyes widened in astonishment. It was dizzying to picture her this sweet again after the feral display earlier, and if he thought he could have managed it he would have bolted for the door. But he was a weak man now, and the moment Maebe initiated her own hug he felt a fresh wave of barely restrained sobs come over him, and instead of running away he leaned into the embrace and took a shameful amount of comfort out of what he was scared to suspect was another ploy.

Dawson cried for he didn't know how long, and he didn't know what exactly for anymore.

When the tattered knees of his jeans and parts of Maebe's top were soaked, his tears began to subside back into uncommon and erratic breaths. He didn't bother cleaning his face in that moment; it took a surprising amount of energy just to remember how to talk properly. "N-Not t'night," he begged in a muddy whisper. "Later. P-Please." He felt so drained all of a sudden that even his trembling had become less pronounced, though Maebe could feel it.

"Y-Yeah...yeah." Nobody could leave unless they died. It was a sort of macabre optimism that wasn't his style but that he didn't mind accepting right now. "Sawry," he mumbled meekly as she cleaned him up, shame for his behavior finally catching up to him. "Sawry, I-I didn' mean..." Sorry for her, sorry for him, sorry for everything. His face was as red as an apple and stinging.

Forcing himself to gulp down deep breaths, Dawson began to unwind. He let his legs ease down and his shoulders relax, and once they had, he leaned forward and embraced Maebe tightly. He needed to do that one more time, before she slunk out again, before something turned a one-eighty on him, before he lost the chance to show how grateful he was. For all of the twists and turns she had pulled him through tonight, he still believed in what he had seen before he had gone and messed it all up. There was something there inside of her that was Good, even if she didn't believe in it. Even if he'd have to endure whatever this game of hers was in order to prove it like she wanted.

"Thank you. Means a lot t'me. N'...Same fer you, y'know," he said quietly as he held on. "Talk, hang, whatever. I'll be here." With a firm pat on the back Dawsom freed her, and there it was again in the timid and still somewhat watery smile he gave her before he started to pick up the mess of tissues he'd made her use: friends.

Dawson blinked. A small pile of crumpled tissues was already jammed into his coat pockets, but he stopped as asked and wiped his nose on his arm for good measure. "Yeah...thanks," he said as he took the bottle, motioned like he was making a toast, unscrewed the cap, and took several big gulps.

"Hey, uh..." He glanced at her, the corner of his lips twitching up as Maebe leaned against him. "I know I wasn' what ya were expectin', but thanks fer the invite anyway, Mayb. Just had t'say that before I forgot. N' f'I caused ya too much trouble fer now, I'll head out so ya don' hafta worry about it n' I'll make it up later. No cleanin', promise," he joked weakly, like that was the sort of shift he liked to take on a regular basis. "'Cause I dunno about you, but I feel ready fer a long sleep."

A laugh! There we go, mission success. "Ya think that's bad, y'should've seen me after yer invite," he said with a chuckle. "Horace prolly laughed his a** off watchin' me fret. I'ma low key fella 'til the spotlight's on me, n' then it's kinda..." He mimed an explosion. "Brain mush."

He still suffered from some form of it, judging from the fav that he hadn't questioned why he was still tasting blood. "Oh." When Maebe pointed it out, he blinked again, stuck out his bottom lip to squint at, and dug out a used tissue to press onto the little wound. "Eh, not so bad," Dawson said around the tissue, ignoring the little stings. "Syn says she's got it. Buddy a'mine came back from a mission with some badass scars so, hell, guess it's about time I got one myself, heh."

Not to mention a cut lip was nothing compared to getting repeatedly shot at once a week or more by Claude.

He waved his other hand around and looked terribly amused. "Don' hafta get formal on me now, hun. Mr. Grace was my pops. Call me Dawson or Shaggy or Big D or some non mister thing, I ain't a suit n' tie guy." As for having fun, well...he decided not to touch that topic again. This odd little meeting was fun enough as it was, thanks.

Bracing himself, Dawson got to his feet and managed only to waver a little once he was standing; at last, his legs seemed to be in working order. "Welp, we're both tired so m'gonna take it as a sign t'kick myself out before I fall asleep on ya n' ya suffocate or somethin', hah. I, uh, prolly should letcha have yer space again anyway," he added sheepishly. "Y'know, letcha breathe. Kinda intense fer a while there, y'know, not so smooth like ya said, but s'all good, honest. Maybe next time I'll stay the night if ya really want." Lord knows she looked like she needed more than just a hug.

He spotted his lunchbox and went to retrieve it. "There's still a Hershey bar in here if ya want," he offered.