[his ears haven't yet begun to bleed, and they only ring with the hollow remnants of voices that have dissipated that have been dismissed by the temerity of his strange companion - there's a huff of admiration at the ease with which she seems to dispatch the unseen horrors. at this rate, he might never get to the bleeding ears stage.
in the face of this she is unimpressed, peevish and inconvenienced. he doesn't know what to make of it, so it's greeted with blanket acceptance - and a bit of recognition that obviously, this is not her first, nor likely her fiftieth horrorshow rodeo against such abominations.
oh, he'll light it. the lighter's scooped up with an ease that's at utter odds with the rest of what he's feeling, an anchor - a familiar weight in his hands that teases a bitter, resolute smile he is glad to feel on his face, a biting tilt of a thing to counter a biting tilt of this building and all its thirty one flavors of fucking wrongness. the first flick does nothing, but he only flicks again, and a third time because it works goddamnit - he remembers this if nothing else. he knows thing song and dance. and dance it does, that sweet little flame - a fistbump of fire to ignite the torch - a dance of lights and patterns that make him feel as if the floor beneath him is swaying, moving.
is it breathing?
well, if it is, not for long.]
Here's to hoping. It's worked before.
[another smile, but even in the torchlight, it's a cold one.]
no subject
in the face of this she is unimpressed, peevish and inconvenienced. he doesn't know what to make of it, so it's greeted with blanket acceptance - and a bit of recognition that obviously, this is not her first, nor likely her fiftieth
horrorshowrodeo against such abominations.oh, he'll light it. the lighter's scooped up with an ease that's at utter odds with the rest of what he's feeling, an anchor - a familiar weight in his hands that teases a bitter, resolute smile he is glad to feel on his face, a biting tilt of a thing to counter a biting tilt of this building and all its thirty one flavors of fucking wrongness. the first flick does nothing, but he only flicks again, and a third time because it works goddamnit - he remembers this if nothing else. he knows thing song and dance. and dance it does, that sweet little flame - a fistbump of fire to ignite the torch - a dance of lights and patterns that make him feel as if the floor beneath him is swaying, moving.
is it breathing?
well, if it is, not for long.]
Here's to hoping. It's worked before.
[another smile, but even in the torchlight, it's a cold one.]