[the boy is lying with his face smashed into the cushions; he's been there for hours already, his body having finally exhausted itself of that cockroach at the Apocalypse energy it'd been exerting for weeks on end (couples with reminders from Nill to take it easy on the bod, of all fucking things)]
[a tired green eye rolls up to look at -- no, not carol, the baggy]
[and he reaches his unbroken arm out, falling tragically short of it]
[that's just pathetic enough to cross into pathetically adorable territory. carol takes pity on him, leaning forward to unpack the food, nudging him a little as she does.]
[he grumbles without really vocalising any real resistance, taking some time to sort out coltish limbs and agitated aches and wounds alike]
[eventually he's sitting slumped up, and something's starkly missing from his face -- the two black bands that have been bisecting it, since eyepatch replaced initial bandages]
[however, as he leans forward, a chunk of orange hair instantly obscures whatever the fuck the eyepatch was hiding; the boy doesn't seem to notice he's been laid a bit bare, put in a bit of a precarious position, too mentally burnt out to keep every guard up]
[she notices, but she doesn't comment, doesn't react outside of a tiny twist in her gut -- at that, and at the still-too-broken state of his face as a whole. passes a box over, chopsticks and a plastic fork on top -- carol didn't know which would be easier, with the broken arm and the clumsy, scarred hand.
her own food sorted, she sits back, hesitates a second before gently dropping a hand on top of his head. it's not ruffling, or brushing the hair back, or anything she might usually (rarely, sparingly) try to do, it's just. that.]
You feeling okay, butthead?
[the last part is because she feels a little awkward, now, wants to try and change tack back to casual. smooth moves, danvers.]
[the box is grabbed, wedged into his lap while he settles his cast across his crotch; the thin fingers poking out of it have a few bandaids wrapped around them, stupid ones, with stars and hearts on]
[that clumsy scarred hand knocks the chopsticks to the side (he was actually really good at them, before -- before his dominant hand became a little less useful)]
[the fork is already scooping a giant wad of noodles into a busted mouth when plonk goes Carol's hand, and he shoots her a Look, instantly picking up on that awkward tone -- something's amiss, but he's not sure what (dogs and street kids were both good at picking up on vibes, and Carol is smelling Uncomfortable and Seeking)]
[around too many noodles]
Fou're kiffin' 'ight?
[snap, teeth sever the long train, and plop the rest goes back into the box, splattering his shirt mildly with sauce]
[reassured, she wrinkles her nose at the mess he's (already!) starting to make, and now she really does ruffle that haystack of hair, lightly.
for god's sake, she's become such a worrier.
carol takes her hand back and opens her own container -- one of about five, plus sides, because whatever they don't eat now can be breakfast tomorrow. settles in with her own fork -- those still-splinted fingers make chopsticks a pain for her, too.]
So where's this game you've been bitching about? It better still be intact.
[an eager stabbing of chicken -- despite getting enough beatings to signify him as prey, he's a carnivore at heart -- and the boy lulls into silence. talking and eating, for most 14 year old boys, were mutually exclusive activities]
[however the paused game on the screen is, in fact, the one he'd been bitching about]
[a nudge with her elbow -- it'd better not be -- and carol snarfs down a forkful of mushu pork, at least a little more gracefully than badou's eating.]
Mph.
[chewing, leaning forward, she puts her food on the coffee table and reaches for the controller.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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my facell get infected
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Better get ready
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dont text n fly
or do n crash in2 the side
of a fucking house
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SPLAT
Oh no if only I had listened to badou
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n then its 2 late !
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Hey you want food?
Chinese?
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Doesn't really matter
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chinese i guess
thorfinn gets pissed now
when we get pizza n he aint here
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[you are one to talk, carol]
I take it I should get you the whole menu
As usual?
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u can learn shit
who knew
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actually
no spicy shit this time
i had orange juice
this morning
it was bad
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Ok gimme like 20 mins
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action
plonk goes the bag of chinese food onto the coffee table, plonk goes carol's butt onto the couch. hey sup.]
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[a tired green eye rolls up to look at -- no, not carol, the baggy]
[and he reaches his unbroken arm out, falling tragically short of it]
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Sit up, you're gonna spill shit.
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[eventually he's sitting slumped up, and something's starkly missing from his face -- the two black bands that have been bisecting it, since eyepatch replaced initial bandages]
[however, as he leans forward, a chunk of orange hair instantly obscures whatever the fuck the eyepatch was hiding; the boy doesn't seem to notice he's been laid a bit bare, put in a bit of a precarious position, too mentally burnt out to keep every guard up]
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her own food sorted, she sits back, hesitates a second before gently dropping a hand on top of his head. it's not ruffling, or brushing the hair back, or anything she might usually (rarely, sparingly) try to do, it's just. that.]
You feeling okay, butthead?
[the last part is because she feels a little awkward, now, wants to try and change tack back to casual. smooth moves, danvers.]
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[that clumsy scarred hand knocks the chopsticks to the side (he was actually really good at them, before -- before his dominant hand became a little less useful)]
[the fork is already scooping a giant wad of noodles into a busted mouth when plonk goes Carol's hand, and he shoots her a Look, instantly picking up on that awkward tone -- something's amiss, but he's not sure what (dogs and street kids were both good at picking up on vibes, and Carol is smelling Uncomfortable and Seeking)]
[around too many noodles]
Fou're kiffin' 'ight?
[snap, teeth sever the long train, and plop the rest goes back into the box, splattering his shirt mildly with sauce]
Get offa me, m'tryin' ta eat.
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[reassured, she wrinkles her nose at the mess he's (already!) starting to make, and now she really does ruffle that haystack of hair, lightly.
for god's sake, she's become such a worrier.
carol takes her hand back and opens her own container -- one of about five, plus sides, because whatever they don't eat now can be breakfast tomorrow. settles in with her own fork -- those still-splinted fingers make chopsticks a pain for her, too.]
So where's this game you've been bitching about? It better still be intact.
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[an eager stabbing of chicken -- despite getting enough beatings to signify him as prey, he's a carnivore at heart -- and the boy lulls into silence. talking and eating, for most 14 year old boys, were mutually exclusive activities]
[however the paused game on the screen is, in fact, the one he'd been bitching about]
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Mph.
[chewing, leaning forward, she puts her food on the coffee table and reaches for the controller.
swallow. unpause.]
You're gonna get so schooled. By your mom, too.
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action
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