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No worries, though: Molly had a picture. She also had, maybe more tellingly, a tray of cupcakes. A whole damn tray. The sight incurred a twinge of guilt. They weren't all for him, surely.

Of course, he wasn't sure exactly what had possessed him to ask for one, anyway. A sweet tooth a mile wide helped--despite what Peyton had seen he could, in fact, put away enormous quantities of food if it was sugar-coated enough--and so had, if he had been in the mood to be honest with himself, the fact that everyone had seemed to like this Molly Finn person. He felt a distinct urge to find himself in the sphere of a kindly person.

He had no idea what Molly was expecting, but he was aware, as he approached, that it probably wasn't him. If anyone ever needed to eat a dozen cupcakes it was this guy, and he needed to follow it up with a shave. A cigarette dangled off his lip--priority number one had been obtaining those--and with his hands in his pockets, coat pushed back, the sharp lines of his emaciated torso were the more obvious under his bleach-speckled shirt.

He had a rangy, loping way of walking, all slouched and hyperaware, and he stopped some feet shy of her. He looked like the sort of creature that ought to bark, so it was, maybe, a little surprising how softspoken he was: "Molly Finn, I presume?"

Well, that was enthusiastic. After the greetings he'd gotten from Rep and Peyton, he'd take it, even if it made him faintly embarrassed, incredibly self-conscious, and a bit tongue-tied.

"Oh god, sweetheart," he said, and he called her that the way dirty old men called their waitresses that, with an unaware condescension that would probably be lost on her of all people. One could only hope. "Is it all right?"

He took a quick drag and flicked the cherry away so that he could take the tray without shedding ash all over them, trying to juggle it into his hands, which trembled faintly, just on the edge of being noticeable. "I was right. You're a saint. And don't call me Mr. Thompson, please. Obadiah's fine. Or whatever, since I seem to be acquiring nicknames at a rapid clip. I feel like you've put in too much effort for me," he added, surveying the cupcakes and wondering how the hell he was going to eat them all. Maybe Peyton would want one, or five. A stroke of genius: "You'll share them with me, right?"

Something about that startled him.

"Two years," he echoed weakly, sounding shaken. "That's... that's a long time." He rallied, or tried to, juggling the tray over into one hand so that he could exhale a cloud of smoke, having just enough decency to turn his head away from her but not enough to apologize or even notice when it drifted back in her direction anyway. "I'm sure you... have a lot you could teach me. Like where I could find a decent broom in this shi--" he bit it back. For reasons he could not fathom, he did not want to curse in front of Molly. It would be like cursing in front of his mother. "You know, one with the bristles not falling out."

A whole year. Three years. He felt the blood running out of his face, but the rest of it brought him back to reality. "Are you sure about turning down that canonization?" he asked with a wolfish (if somewhat nervous) grin. "I can solemnly swear they'd be given a good home and fully appreciated. If you're not busy I can go get them now?" Please. Please now. "I guess I can--can drop these off first."

This was good. Molly was good. He was more relaxed than he had been at all so far, and if she'd been able to see him before maybe she'd have noticed the way the hard line of his jaw and the tension of his shoulders had unraveled. A cheery maternal presence was almost (although not quite) as good as a cigarette.

This, too: this made him uncomfortable. It looked very... domestic. It looked long-term. The tiny, spartan dorms were like the boxes before a dogtrack: a temporary holding cell at best, a place to pace nervously before you were turned out after the rabbits.

Still clutching the tray of sweets like it was an anchor in a stormy sea, he only gave himself a second to look around, with quick and nervous eyes that seemed to move constantly, rarely settling.

"What happened that you had to get a roommate?" he asked warily, adding as an aside: "God, you've been busy." Which made him feel better about his loot.

"That's a sight for sore fuc--for sore eyes," he said with sincere relief when she returned with the broom.

He led the way, obediently, although he clearly found the process of talking over his shoulder at her awkward. Too many questions. "Must be nice to get out of the sh--out of the dorms, I guess?" He wondered absently what she'd done to earn it, but couldn't bring himself to be nosy enough to ask. "Kitchen and everything. Does it have its own shower?"

If there was a private bathroom he was going to start working towards a second-floor apartment right now.

Well, that clenched it. He loped down the stairs like a coyote and visions of a private shower danced in his head. Right now having access to hot water on the regular was still enough of a novelty that it outweighed the pain of communal showers, but he was aware that the novelty would wear off, and he dreaded it.

They were nearly at his door before he realized he ought to say something instead of stewing in silence: "Where do I get a friend like Miss Candace until I can climb the ranks?" he asked, and although he'd meant for it to be good-natured it just came out sarcastic, like nearly everything he said. "Awfully generous of her. I guess like attracts like."

He opened the door with his elbow, and felt the contrast between the apartment upstairs and his own room now: spartan and even somewhat grim, but impeccably clean. The place smelled like bleach. He'd sat up for hours scouring every surface. The meager collection of books he owned was aligned with absolute precision in a stack beside the perfectly-made bed. He deposited the cupcakes on his desk. "First pick is yours, of course," he said, gesturing at them and absently clawing off his scarf the second his hands were empty.