It's not Doc, it's Klaus-- he just feels too much, too big, always.
This, at least, doesn't last quite so long as the last little breakdown Doc had found himself on the receiving end of. He leans into the touch, he'll always seek physical comfort when it's offered (and sometimes when it's not). He can't help the bitter scoff that comes with those first words. "Tell that to two decades of being reduced to nothing else except that." He shakes his head. He knows that sometimes, he uses everything from the past as a crutch or an excuse but there is truth to it, too. Those things hard-wired into him during his most impressionable and formative years are near-impossible to put away as unimportant, or just plain false.
"Plus," he leans back in the chair and sniffs, dragging a hand through his hair. "You guys have other skills. I don't. I spent like twenty years partying and sinking into addiction to escape my life and the inside of my own head. Without that," he huffs softly, dropping his hands down into his lap. "I don't have anything to offer." He shakes his head. "People don't want that. 'Specially around here. Nobody wants to fucking talk 'n hug it out, Doc, just about everyone in this stupid foggy hellscape is emotionally stunted in some way or another and would rather bottle it up and die than admit to anything that might be shaped a little bit like a weakness."
He watches people. He knows the ones he sees more than they realize. Klaus has always been far more observant than people would expect. But he knows what people think of him, too. The emotional wreck with a big mouth that would be better off left shut; the junkie no one would trust with anything of import; the annoying thorn in their side they tolerate, but would rather he leave them alone.
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This, at least, doesn't last quite so long as the last little breakdown Doc had found himself on the receiving end of. He leans into the touch, he'll always seek physical comfort when it's offered (and sometimes when it's not). He can't help the bitter scoff that comes with those first words. "Tell that to two decades of being reduced to nothing else except that." He shakes his head. He knows that sometimes, he uses everything from the past as a crutch or an excuse but there is truth to it, too. Those things hard-wired into him during his most impressionable and formative years are near-impossible to put away as unimportant, or just plain false.
"Plus," he leans back in the chair and sniffs, dragging a hand through his hair. "You guys have other skills. I don't. I spent like twenty years partying and sinking into addiction to escape my life and the inside of my own head. Without that," he huffs softly, dropping his hands down into his lap. "I don't have anything to offer." He shakes his head. "People don't want that. 'Specially around here. Nobody wants to fucking talk 'n hug it out, Doc, just about everyone in this stupid foggy hellscape is emotionally stunted in some way or another and would rather bottle it up and die than admit to anything that might be shaped a little bit like a weakness."
He watches people. He knows the ones he sees more than they realize. Klaus has always been far more observant than people would expect. But he knows what people think of him, too. The emotional wreck with a big mouth that would be better off left shut; the junkie no one would trust with anything of import; the annoying thorn in their side they tolerate, but would rather he leave them alone.