[Arthur can't quite say he believes her. He doesn't know if he does.
But he does believe Sally believes it. Whatever the truth is, what she's going through is real. There's no doubt of that. She may be a very good actress, but this...this is different.
And despite what he's told himself, Arthur Hastings is not, in fact, a monster. As awkward as it is, as difficult as he finds emotional displays - he can't help it, he's an Englishman - he can't be a prick.
Not when Sally is literally crying against him. She's such a tiny thing, made even smaller in her raw feeling. His heart skitters in confusion and mild distress and some sort of sympathy. And there's a strange sort of awe, too, to think of Sally Boyle, fantastical mod gal on the go, weeping in his arms. It's eerily like some rather embarrassing daydreams he's had. A twinge of guilt quickly follows at even recognizing that.
Cautiously, hesitantly at first, his arms go around her. It's like holding a trembling bird, there's practically nothing to her. And Arthur is a tall man, long of limb. It's easy to envelop her. It begins to feel natural, as he closes the embrace.]
I'm...here for you.
[It's all he can think of to say. Platitudes would be practically an offense, and he's absolute shit at grief. He's quick to turn his into anger. That certainly wouldn't be helpful here.
So he just stands there, on the side of the road beside his bus, holding her and letting her cry.]
no subject
But he does believe Sally believes it. Whatever the truth is, what she's going through is real. There's no doubt of that. She may be a very good actress, but this...this is different.
And despite what he's told himself, Arthur Hastings is not, in fact, a monster. As awkward as it is, as difficult as he finds emotional displays - he can't help it, he's an Englishman - he can't be a prick.
Not when Sally is literally crying against him. She's such a tiny thing, made even smaller in her raw feeling. His heart skitters in confusion and mild distress and some sort of sympathy. And there's a strange sort of awe, too, to think of Sally Boyle, fantastical mod gal on the go, weeping in his arms. It's eerily like some rather embarrassing daydreams he's had. A twinge of guilt quickly follows at even recognizing that.
Cautiously, hesitantly at first, his arms go around her. It's like holding a trembling bird, there's practically nothing to her. And Arthur is a tall man, long of limb. It's easy to envelop her. It begins to feel natural, as he closes the embrace.]
I'm...here for you.
[It's all he can think of to say. Platitudes would be practically an offense, and he's absolute shit at grief. He's quick to turn his into anger. That certainly wouldn't be helpful here.
So he just stands there, on the side of the road beside his bus, holding her and letting her cry.]