( Ben ushers them both inside, guiding the man up out of the street and onto the front step of the Book Store (that's it, that's the name of the book store in town, despite nearly everything else having a cute moniker, often a pun related to deer, no this doesn't trouble Ben what are you talking about) while looking past his shoulder...to make sure that girl isn't in view, isn't coming back to reclaim the man she nearly took down all for herself.
they shuffle inside, their clamoring movements alone deafening in the sleepy, quiet shop. it's warmer in here, certainly, and much to Ben's relief at least — thus, he can only imagine how the other man is doing right now.
there's a petite sofa near the window, a cozy spot for avid literature enthusiasts — just don't mind the copies quite literally...spilling up the opposite wall and out across the ceiling like a tripped paint can gone wild. the pages flip and sigh idly above them like some JK Rowling atmospheric oddity. Ben doesn't give it any consideration as he urges the man to sit, pulling a knit throw draped over one end of the furniture. it goes around the man's shoulders immediately. )
I'm Ben — are you...sorry, I don't mean to be presumptuous, but. ( Ben sits beside him, but his gaze goes right back out the window in paranoia; Christ, the girl, the one from the dreams, or have they been visions? he hasn't been able to decide since they started. it should be no surprise that after multiple nights of disturbed sleep, the presence would begin to manifest here in the town. ) Have you been in Deerington very long? ( hardly as if Ben is some local socialite with all the 411 on Sleepers in the area, but — he's an info-hoarder, and he's vaguely aware of most of the stolen people brought into this strange place after studying the town for months. this man's face is...unfamiliar.
perhaps that's not quite it; this man's is painfully reminiscent of Ben himself, and it's moreso that he thinks he would just...know if there were other bookish, nervous, English stereotypes like himself. it's like looking in a mirror, and it feels like a cosmic punchline. )
no subject
they shuffle inside, their clamoring movements alone deafening in the sleepy, quiet shop. it's warmer in here, certainly, and much to Ben's relief at least — thus, he can only imagine how the other man is doing right now.
there's a petite sofa near the window, a cozy spot for avid literature enthusiasts — just don't mind the copies quite literally...spilling up the opposite wall and out across the ceiling like a tripped paint can gone wild. the pages flip and sigh idly above them like some JK Rowling atmospheric oddity. Ben doesn't give it any consideration as he urges the man to sit, pulling a knit throw draped over one end of the furniture. it goes around the man's shoulders immediately. )
I'm Ben — are you...sorry, I don't mean to be presumptuous, but. ( Ben sits beside him, but his gaze goes right back out the window in paranoia; Christ, the girl, the one from the dreams, or have they been visions? he hasn't been able to decide since they started. it should be no surprise that after multiple nights of disturbed sleep, the presence would begin to manifest here in the town. ) Have you been in Deerington very long? ( hardly as if Ben is some local socialite with all the 411 on Sleepers in the area, but — he's an info-hoarder, and he's vaguely aware of most of the stolen people brought into this strange place after studying the town for months. this man's face is...unfamiliar.
perhaps that's not quite it; this man's is painfully reminiscent of Ben himself, and it's moreso that he thinks he would just...know if there were other bookish, nervous, English stereotypes like himself. it's like looking in a mirror, and it feels like a cosmic punchline. )