He talks in his sleep. She's fairly sure he doesn't know this. It's not exactly a habit someone in his profession could afford to maintain. She remembers the first time he did it, he mumbled incomprehensible words into he shoulder, smiling slightly. She remembers thinking how soothing that was, and how it was certainly preferable to snoring. She had giggled and he had shifted his body closer to hers.
But it wasn't always like that. Though rarely, there were nights where the things he said were precise and articulate. His voice would ring clear and echo slightly off of his beige bedroom walls. He says he's sorry.
She knows the apologies aren't meant for her. Why would they be? She sees the expression of subtle remorse in his eyes every once in a while. It's when he's leaving and he's touching her cheek. It's when she's telling him to be careful. Telling him to just come home soon. Those are the apologies made just for her.
The ones in his dreams are for people she doesn't have the strength to ask about. She knows it's not her place, she knows it's probably not true, but while he sleeps on, she tells him that he is forgiven. She tells him that they allow him absolution. Some nights he holds her closer, others she notices a slow tear trace it's way down his cheek. The only consistency is that he refuses to meet her gaze the next morning. It has to do with guilt, she guesses. And blind hope, hope that the calm voice that penetrated his dreams spoke the truth.
"Why do you do it?" she was changing the gauze over his newest wound, a small slash just under his left ribs. Her hands were shaking, he had never come back like this before. There were bruises and scrapes, welts and scratches, but never something that bled. A small piece of her felt triumphant that no one had succeeded in harming him as much as she had been able to, but it was soon quashed by concern. And something related to betrayal. She had told him to be careful, and wounds that bled were not careful.
"It's the only thing I've ever been good at." he answered, careful to hide the pain in his voice. Her eyes narrowed into slits, mouth opening with any number of come backs. He spoke before she could get any of them out. "That, and loving you." he said with his patented charming and condescending lilt.
There was no arguing with something like that, so she simply repressed a smile and poked him lightly on his cut in retaliation.
"Apparently not that good." she teased, standing to get him some water.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her atop of him, watching to make sure none of her weight rested on his wound. "You know, I really can't strain myself for the next few days, or this deep and mortal cut will never heal." he said in a matter of fact manner. "I'm barely hanging on as it is." he protested when she rolled her eyes at him.
"You're just being lazy," she pointed out as he began to unbutton her blouse.
"You're a hotel manager," he responded, "Accommodate me."
There were occasionally more wounds for Lisa to bandage, more apologies to whisper away in the middle of the night. More forgiveness to offer without permission, more questions that she was too scared to ask. But she never thought that it wasn't worth it to her. Because Jackson never lied, he was exceptionally good at both of his talents.