( there is a funny little joke around Deerington, mostly across the teenage students (all half-dozen of them that bother to attend at all) about Ben and what era he must have been plucked from. in truth, he's a first-run millennial, born in the year that George Orwell titled some little book that may or may not live in general memory — not that anyone has ever directly asked. what causes a perfectly contemporary man to accrue a reputation about his origin, in terms of generations? what's a guy gotta act like to make a mishap like that?
probably has something to do with the tweed blazer, leather oxfords, and...pulling an honest to god handkerchief out of his pocket. something about it screams 'no less than 1920, no more than 1960,' but here he is, unfolding the cloth with some sense of professionalism before moving to take the man's hand—
and he hesitates. it's been a crazy couple of months — half of the town kind of relived the whole Titanic thing, before winding up trapped in a subaqueous city, and two months of harrowing survival sort of blurred the lines concerning physical boundaries.
but Ben's wits are with him here, and when he stalls, he looks at the man as he fumbles over some traceable confusion. Ben wishes it were a stranger thing than it really is...if the man is new, then the confusion is going to be one of the only reliable things here. )
Here — can I...? ( Ben's hand is mild and open as it hovers near his wrist, and he makes the intent visible for him to decide. )
Sunny, is it? I'm Ben. ( something sympathetic rests in his gaze, bleak and concrete eyes that look Sunny's face over, sees the unbalance, the faltering... it isn't gawk-worthy, it doesn't twist his face with suspicion or worry. the look on Ben's face, instead, is a shade of recognition. ) What's this about...a spinning wheel?
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probably has something to do with the tweed blazer, leather oxfords, and...pulling an honest to god handkerchief out of his pocket. something about it screams 'no less than 1920, no more than 1960,' but here he is, unfolding the cloth with some sense of professionalism before moving to take the man's hand—
and he hesitates. it's been a crazy couple of months — half of the town kind of relived the whole Titanic thing, before winding up trapped in a subaqueous city, and two months of harrowing survival sort of blurred the lines concerning physical boundaries.
but Ben's wits are with him here, and when he stalls, he looks at the man as he fumbles over some traceable confusion. Ben wishes it were a stranger thing than it really is...if the man is new, then the confusion is going to be one of the only reliable things here. )
Here — can I...? ( Ben's hand is mild and open as it hovers near his wrist, and he makes the intent visible for him to decide. )
Sunny, is it? I'm Ben. ( something sympathetic rests in his gaze, bleak and concrete eyes that look Sunny's face over, sees the unbalance, the faltering... it isn't gawk-worthy, it doesn't twist his face with suspicion or worry. the look on Ben's face, instead, is a shade of recognition. ) What's this about...a spinning wheel?