[ He strips his gloves off. Right, then left. Part of him wants to shed all the layers he's got on, like a snake, and just have at it right then and there. Hoist her up on the sink, maybe. He's strong enough to lift her - maybe even to hold her against the wall, if they feel like getting athletic. And the other part of him - old, vicious instinct - says only fools let themselves get separated from their weapons. But he pulls his shirt off and lets it drop in turn, even if he won't drop his pants - or his belt, more specifically, and the long knife sheathed at his hip.
Practicalities. He is what he is. He doubts this place will change that. ]
Not thinking much at all.
[ That's the whole problem. It's hard to focus, to remember himself when all he wants to do is go to her. She's small and wiry, much smaller than him, and he's staring at her breasts like an idiot.
Underneath all the layers he wears, Carver's tall and broad-shouldered, built like a boxer. He's had the calories lately to build up some muscle, but starvation takes a toll on a body and there have been bad winters. He survived all of them, but not always gently. He's been shot, stabbed, blown up more than once. The only scars he doesn't have are burns - not a single one.
There's a unit tattoo on his arm, a skull on a black field and Fortitudo Saludis printed bold around it. And a pendant on a long cord he wears in place of dog tags, a sword pinned in an iron circle. ]
no subject
Practicalities. He is what he is. He doubts this place will change that. ]
Not thinking much at all.
[ That's the whole problem. It's hard to focus, to remember himself when all he wants to do is go to her. She's small and wiry, much smaller than him, and he's staring at her breasts like an idiot.
Underneath all the layers he wears, Carver's tall and broad-shouldered, built like a boxer. He's had the calories lately to build up some muscle, but starvation takes a toll on a body and there have been bad winters. He survived all of them, but not always gently. He's been shot, stabbed, blown up more than once. The only scars he doesn't have are burns - not a single one.
There's a unit tattoo on his arm, a skull on a black field and Fortitudo Saludis printed bold around it. And a pendant on a long cord he wears in place of dog tags, a sword pinned in an iron circle. ]
You want me to hold you up?
[ He can. He'd like to, he thinks. ]