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He started a little at her voice. "Uh..." Dawson looked about and saw his three quarters empty jar of cheese puffs by the roll of paper towels he used for napkins and reached over. His face scrunched with the effort, but with a stretch he was able to nab the roll.

"Closest I got right now, sawry." Grunting, he offered them by nudging one end against her arm, then tilted his head back against the beanbag chair and closed his eyes. Even covered them with his hand for good measure.

He remained dutifully blind until he felt her lean against him, at which point he first peaked through his fingers, made sure it was safe, and then peeled his hand away to rest at her back and stroke again. It was hard for him to not just go back to cradling Maebe tightly again.

"Ain't a thing, hun," he protested pleasantly, but it was hard to hide how good he felt to hear those words. "Glad I could help. Messy's fine anyway, I toldja I was used t'that, too. You feelin' a lil' better?"

It was strange to even glance at her naked face, but he made sure he didn't stare. Dawson tilted his head in thought, considered something for a moment, and then snapped his fingers. "Sleepy," he concluded, looking proud of himself for figuring it out. "Sleepy's usually better. Means you got a lot taken out so now ya can rest n' recover. S'good fer ya."

He made to get up and still keep her in his arms, but Dawson immediately fell back down after an inch. "Welp. For a ball a'nothin', you sure weigh enough," he teased, hiding his wince behind a smile. "We'll getcha ta bed one way or another." He paused in thought, then attempted to hoist Maebe up enough to drag the beanbag across the ground through sheer leg power; it got them several inches before he dropped her with a more pronounced hiss of pain. "Slowly but surely..."

He opened his mouth to protest—after all, she was the one who had been running around with a much heavier burden than he did with just carrying her to the bed, which he should have been able to at least do—but Maebe had already flopped down and his injuries thanked her. Wiggling in his seat, Dawson managed to push himself up with a grunt and sought out the book.

"Two things 'fore I start," he said as he grabbed it. "One: ya want me ta text anyone that yer safe here or somethin'? Two: Uh...d'you mind if that light stays on all night?" he asked more sheepishly, indicating the lamp by her. "F'it bothers you, I can move it away n' cover it up. It, uh...It just gets too dark in here in the night." Pitch black more like, as he has no windows.

There was a sorrowful sympathy in his eyes at her answer, a knowledge of years of deep anxiety about the shadows and visions that plagued all hunters. "Never could either. Light won' ever turn off here," Dawson promised quietly. "I gotta have a steady supply a'bulbs all the time, n' I get hell fer the electric bill or whatever, but it's a small price t'pay. Don' worry, darlin'."

He registered the we but continued moving as if he hadn't. Book tucked under his arm, he nudged several bean bag chairs together by the bed, threw a blanket over them, then grabbed a second one and a pillow for good measure before finally settling down. Maebe looked tired enough that he doubted she needed any story, which was something of a relief; this particular book was rife with romantic passages of all sorts he did not feel would be of the best timing to read aloud right now or, well, any time.

"You sure you don' want me t'let someone know?" Dawson asked again a little worriedly, taking her silence on the subject previously as an answer.

"Awlright." It saddened him, but he did say she could keep her secrets.

Nestling into a better position, Dawson tugged his cap off (his cowlick all but springing up immediately upon freedom), set it atop the water bottle like it was a stand, and cracked the book open. He cleared his throat and began to read.

"Price of Passion, by Susan Napier. Chapter one. Oh boy...

‘WHAT the hell d'you want?’

Kate Crawford kept the polite smile pinned t'her lips as she confronted the man who'd wrenched his front door open with an impatient snarl.

Framed in the doorway he 'ppeared intimidatingly large, his broad shoulders n' muscled chest strainin' the seams of a well-worn grey tee shirt, scruffy blue jeans encasin' his long, power-packed legs." He was doing his best not to snicker. "His short-cropped hair stood up in untidy spikes..."