( Gallagher doesn't respond to the statement of fact Sunday leaves behind as he assesses him. He wouldn't call it a compliment. Assigning him scars that he's rightfully stolen isn't the same as Sunday giving his blessing, not that Gallagher should feel as if he needs it. He doesn't want to be seen, doesn't need to be noticed for the person he is, nor the one he should be. Sunday's words don't affirm anything to him. They don't make him feel more grounded in reality, rooted to the spot by the pleasant weight of acknowledgment. He doesn't want him to say it again and know that he means it. The warmth of approval doesn't feel like much at all.

What a terrific liar he is.

When the moment passes, Sunday is behind him. )

Can't imagine anyone here would notice, given all the things I've seen today.

( Somehow, it's got less moral structure than the sweet dream, and you can do anything there.

To the bungalow it is. Gallagher's is empty, probably. He hasn't seen much of his new roommate throughout the day. The only indication of another person sharing his space comes in the form of shifted bedsheets and occasional wardrobe changes strewn in the hamper. He doesn't even know what they look like.

He's half-tempted to take Sunday's hand and pull him along. The man can walk himself, he figures. )

You know there are easier ways to get me out of my clothes.