"Sodder? What the hell is a sodder? Everyone gets one WHAT?"
The words are flung at Wrench's retreating back, though it's not as if the big guy can hear him anyway. Grady throws out his arms in an arc of frustrated impotence, wanting badly to hit or throw something but there's nothing within reach, so he settles for kicking the nearest wall. Every movement sets off another wave of floating dust particles, coming now from the edges of his sleeves and the cuffs of his pants as well as the backs of his hands and fingers.
The static-y feeling is getting worse, and it's that as much as wanting to stay close to the one thing he understands in this place that compels him to follow Wrench like a lost duckling. Despite his own denial, the cool, clammy hands of fear settle over his shoulders, making him walk a little quicker than he needs to, so by the time Wrench thumps on the counter to summon him he's already arriving.
He looks down at the mason jar that his partner holds out, filled with blueberries, then back at Wrench's face. The man looks incensed, on the edge of either violence or tears. Grady tracks the shape of recent, partly healed bruises over his face. Notes the fact that he's wearing clothes he's never seen Wrench wear before. It's unsettling. Those cold invisible fingers grip tighter around his neck.
What the fuck is going on? The stubbornness is as instinctive as it is stupid. I'm not eating that. Is this some kind of weird revenge thing because I made you try those cinnamon candies?
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The words are flung at Wrench's retreating back, though it's not as if the big guy can hear him anyway. Grady throws out his arms in an arc of frustrated impotence, wanting badly to hit or throw something but there's nothing within reach, so he settles for kicking the nearest wall. Every movement sets off another wave of floating dust particles, coming now from the edges of his sleeves and the cuffs of his pants as well as the backs of his hands and fingers.
The static-y feeling is getting worse, and it's that as much as wanting to stay close to the one thing he understands in this place that compels him to follow Wrench like a lost duckling. Despite his own denial, the cool, clammy hands of fear settle over his shoulders, making him walk a little quicker than he needs to, so by the time Wrench thumps on the counter to summon him he's already arriving.
He looks down at the mason jar that his partner holds out, filled with blueberries, then back at Wrench's face. The man looks incensed, on the edge of either violence or tears. Grady tracks the shape of recent, partly healed bruises over his face. Notes the fact that he's wearing clothes he's never seen Wrench wear before. It's unsettling. Those cold invisible fingers grip tighter around his neck.
What the fuck is going on? The stubbornness is as instinctive as it is stupid. I'm not eating that. Is this some kind of weird revenge thing because I made you try those cinnamon candies?