The look that settled on his face at the scolding, at the familiarity, was strangely emotionless as he felt the truth slam down on him, undeniable no matter how much he wanted it to be a mistake. He kept the rations held out for him, but as the seconds stretched on, his hand slowly lowered until it hung limply at his side. And still he couldn't look at him, and he found he couldn't answer, his hand reaching up to rub at an ache behind his brow before sliding under his sunglasses to cover his eyes.
The growing detachment he'd felt only moments ago settled in fully, leaving him feeling completely unmoored. He tried to form the words to reply, and even though he covered part of his face, it was probably obvious by the way his jaw was working around short, wordless humming noises that he was trying, but they refused to come out, as if he couldn't physically make his mouth work. But, small mercies, if he couldn't talk, then technically he didn't have to look at him, right?
Because now, the image of Wolfwood slumped on that couch, eyes staring unseeingly and lips faintly smiling before the rigor mortis had set in was filling his brain. The sight of his body laying in that hole as he began shoveling in handfulls of sand, watching as he slowly, slowly disappeared from the world. And it was too much, to be able to turn and look up at him and see him standing there, alive, even if he were different, even if it wasn't technically the same man.
Finally, after far too long of a silence, he took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly before straightening his sunglasses and looking over, forcing himself to look at him, even as much as it made him feel like he might be sick, and smiled.
"Yeah, sorry." His voice was thready, but at least it was something. "Might've been able to remember how to fix it, if it was your bike, but then you wouldn't need my help."
That motorcycle had broken down so many times over the time they'd travelled together, and he'd sat and watched Wolfwood working on it enough times that he'd started to pick up some of the process on his own, even though he'd never done the repairs himself.
no subject
The growing detachment he'd felt only moments ago settled in fully, leaving him feeling completely unmoored. He tried to form the words to reply, and even though he covered part of his face, it was probably obvious by the way his jaw was working around short, wordless humming noises that he was trying, but they refused to come out, as if he couldn't physically make his mouth work. But, small mercies, if he couldn't talk, then technically he didn't have to look at him, right?
Because now, the image of Wolfwood slumped on that couch, eyes staring unseeingly and lips faintly smiling before the rigor mortis had set in was filling his brain. The sight of his body laying in that hole as he began shoveling in handfulls of sand, watching as he slowly, slowly disappeared from the world. And it was too much, to be able to turn and look up at him and see him standing there, alive, even if he were different, even if it wasn't technically the same man.
Finally, after far too long of a silence, he took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly before straightening his sunglasses and looking over, forcing himself to look at him, even as much as it made him feel like he might be sick, and smiled.
"Yeah, sorry." His voice was thready, but at least it was something. "Might've been able to remember how to fix it, if it was your bike, but then you wouldn't need my help."
That motorcycle had broken down so many times over the time they'd travelled together, and he'd sat and watched Wolfwood working on it enough times that he'd started to pick up some of the process on his own, even though he'd never done the repairs himself.