The needle goes into Cillian's back pocket, and his hand stays jammed there awkwardly for a moment, because he doesn't fucking get all touchy with people he doesn't even know. He barely gets touchy with people he does know. But she's pulling herself smaller and miserable and his heart goes out to her, seeing so much of himself in the way she tries to make herself hard and harsh — tattooing herself, for fuck's sake — but the cracks are all still there, and widening fast.

Very, very slowly, he touches her — just a palm flat against her knee, where there's fabric and it's safe. He rubs there gently, eyes on her face. "Hey now."

Where does he even begin? Where does anyone start with this? He doesn't have Noah's gift for gently patching up strays, is all angles and edges himself. This girl with three names, he wants to make her feel better. "Hey. Girlie. C'mon now. Your friends — they were your friends, yeah? They'd not be wanting you to cry about them, I bet." Another hand, long-fingered and cold-chapped, brushes butterfly-light over her cheek, wiping at some tears. "D'you like tea?"