It takes a moment for his limbs to work right, but then he crosses to they alley with her. She can probably imagine what he looks like under all that dark brown fabric, wide-eyed, a little distressed even though this is a good thing, should be a good thing.

( Darlene, ) he says again, not particularly to her, and then aloud in a soft, smoke roughened voice, "Darlene."

She still mightn't grab him: there's a background hum of don't touch me don't touch me that crackles with the static of anxiety, running constantly like an electricity buzz beneath his thoughts. Above that, the primal ooze of emotions, relief-horror-affection-disbelief-loneliness-adoration-shame-fear-love, none of it unknottable into the individual strands. Above that, his internal monologue and living memory, something he's tried to teach himself to encrypt, to keep from the data packets of communication, but sometimes it leaks through anyway — Darlene certainly just got plenty. And above that—

( Did you come last night? Shit. I can't believe I didn't notice. )

Somewhere between self-recrimination and confusion that they aren't specially linked in the way he always thought they'd be.