cold_dry_pieces | |[that boy needs therapy || v o i c e m a i l ]|

Entry tags:

|[that boy needs therapy || v o i c e m a i l ]|

☎	v o i c e m a i l
☏	t e x t m e s s a g e
✍	m a i l b o x
♟	a c t i o n

[have at it ♥ just let me know which. Previous post available for reference here.]

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[His sarcasm is heavy and her response is idle, throwaway, avoiding eye contact while she composes herself.]

The best.

[He'd cleaned up that bullet wound in her forehead quite remarkably. It's not all that subtle when she pushes the topic away from herself, but she wouldn't try to claim otherwise. It was her own fault, anyway. Barbet was never far from her mind, he didn't need her breath as well.]

Have you missed the clockmaker?

[He shrugs.]

We didn't know each other all that well.

[It's not true, exactly; Gabriel had known him better than he liked; Brian knew the two of them had been much closer during his previous stay, but all those memories were lost.]

Though it was nice getting to split the rent.

[She misses when it was that easy. When she was able to let go of things without a sense of panic and despair. She's already concerned about what the sand is doing to her apartment, she can barely imagine how hard it would be if Blonde weren't there.]

I'm sure you don't have trouble with the rent.

[She runs her fingertip along the rim of her glass before she goes to lift it up again. She is... not entirely surprised when it escapes her and breaks, but that doesn't stop her from wincing.

She misses when things were easy.]

I'll get it...

[She's positive she can find a towel somewhere in that kitchen.]

Not really,

[he manages, before the glass drops. It doesn't make him flinch-- not that he expected it but he's tough to startle, though the set of his lips is faintly disapproving. After all, he abhors a mess.]

By the stove.

[Though he bends to pick up the larger pieces barehanded.]

[Carla returns to crouch down across from her, daubing up water and brushing smaller particles of glass onto the cloth. She's quiet, irritated with herself, though that is nothing new. She holds out her hands with the towel stretched between them to take the pieces he has, hands still unsteady, but she is well aware she's already done plenty to make that apparent.]

[He sets them on the towel, careful not to cut himself and to place them so they won't roll.]

I can vacuum the rest later.

[With a reassuring, slight smile, he takes the towel from her up-stretched hands, folding it into a bundle to carry to the trash, shaking out the shards and leaving the towel hanging on the edge of the bin.]

Nerve damage?

[Rude to ask, maybe, but under the circumstances he's confident he can get away with that.]

[He can, there's only so much running and hiding she will do about it, but it does not stop her grimacing somewhat.]

Yes. It's an old injury.

[She pushes back to her feet slowly, wringing her hands as she straightens up. She stops when she notices she's doing it.]

I'd better go. I think I've dropped my pretense.

[A brittle joke, and she doesn't quite smile.]

[Less embarrassment than he might have expected, but of course if it's bad enough she can't do much to hide it. Repeated honesty tends to dull the edge.]

If you'd rather. I've probably got a bottle, if you still need water?

[She's been humiliated by it every day, for years. It is most certainly dulled and is, perhaps, the least of her frailties.]

My roommate wouldn't complain.

[Pushing the topic back off of herself again.]

I wouldn't be much of a host if I let you leave without what you came for.

[So he's rummaging for a plastic bottle to fill, watching her only out of the corner of his eye.]

[One of her hands finds its way to the crook of her neck, fingers curled loosely. A generically insecure gesture, and she ignores the deeper compulsion beneath it.]

Somehow I doubt your merits as a host worry you much either.

I pride myself on my hospitality.

[With a joking tone, though it's rather a private joke. After a minute more he brings her a soda bottle, label torn off and filled with water.]

[Carla gives him a thoughtful look for that. There is something about him that makes her anxious. It may be what she perceives to be overlaps with Barbet, traits which in turn make her hopelessly curious.]

I won't give you a bad review, don't worry.

[She accepts the bottle carefully, determined to at least leave with most of her fragile dignity.]

Glad to hear that.

[If he was really polite he'd have given her a bag, but well.]

Any time.

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