( a flash of wariness, and he reaches his hand out to her. he still doesn't know what she's doing, not really, but he mirrors her actions all the same. where her hand is soft and smooth, his is dirty, physically and metaphorically, rough from years spent holding weapons, from years punching and fighting, small scars lining his fingers here and there, callouses evident where there are no scars.
you'll get set up there, she says, and marc nods, accepting in spite of the doubt, in spite of the cool, cold dread of unknowing that makes itself known. marc can't remember the last time he was in a living space with other people. she adds that he has options and, for some reason, the thought strikes him as funny, the barest glimmer of amusement flashing across his features. )
Do I? ( do any of them, really?
(is he talking about showers...?) ) That's cute. ( ...probably not. )
no subject
you'll get set up there, she says, and marc nods, accepting in spite of the doubt, in spite of the cool, cold dread of unknowing that makes itself known. marc can't remember the last time he was in a living space with other people. she adds that he has options and, for some reason, the thought strikes him as funny, the barest glimmer of amusement flashing across his features. )
Do I? ( do any of them, really?
(is he talking about showers...?) ) That's cute. ( ...probably not. )