"Maybe tomorrow once we've levered this stupid temple out of Venatori hands for good," Marcus says, "you'll feel differently about it."
And Research could consider finding nicer and more temperate locations for them to excavate and murder for. But here, he has summoned back the subject of tomorrow awaiting them, and then shrinking hours that separate this moment from that. He could trick himself into the comfort of this arrangement as being comparable to being in bed, Flint's back to his chest while they speak of
(not nothing, he isn't speaking just to fill a silence, but out of some errant desire to share something of himself in exchange of Flint's, even if that something is the vague notion of a country and no clear image of what he does once he makes it there)
anything but then he can feel his feet begin to ache in his boots and his back start to protest the slouch required not to brush his head on the canvas, and so. Wisdom it is, his hands shifting now to Flint's shoulders, a squeeze to signal, "I should see to that rest."
A lingering beat there under the shape of Marcus' hands. Then, with a low hum of assent, Flint shifts the distribution of his weight forward. There. Agreed. Done. That was decided some minutes ago, and there has been no change in opinion.
"Shake out your bedroll before you lay down in it," is just sound advice.
Flint leans forwards, and Marcus' hands instinctively follow for a beat before withdrawing.
His reply is exhale-adjacent, only heard by virtue of the close confines of the tent, smothering out the rest of the campsite. Another beat, and then a scuff of boots and the sound of the flap being pushed aside. Chill night air, briefly, presses against Flint's now warmed back, and then he is left to conclude his evening and his tankard of ale.
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"Maybe tomorrow once we've levered this stupid temple out of Venatori hands for good," Marcus says, "you'll feel differently about it."
And Research could consider finding nicer and more temperate locations for them to excavate and murder for. But here, he has summoned back the subject of tomorrow awaiting them, and then shrinking hours that separate this moment from that. He could trick himself into the comfort of this arrangement as being comparable to being in bed, Flint's back to his chest while they speak of
(not nothing, he isn't speaking just to fill a silence, but out of some errant desire to share something of himself in exchange of Flint's, even if that something is the vague notion of a country and no clear image of what he does once he makes it there)
anything but then he can feel his feet begin to ache in his boots and his back start to protest the slouch required not to brush his head on the canvas, and so. Wisdom it is, his hands shifting now to Flint's shoulders, a squeeze to signal, "I should see to that rest."
no subject
A lingering beat there under the shape of Marcus' hands. Then, with a low hum of assent, Flint shifts the distribution of his weight forward. There. Agreed. Done. That was decided some minutes ago, and there has been no change in opinion.
"Shake out your bedroll before you lay down in it," is just sound advice.
no subject
His reply is exhale-adjacent, only heard by virtue of the close confines of the tent, smothering out the rest of the campsite. Another beat, and then a scuff of boots and the sound of the flap being pushed aside. Chill night air, briefly, presses against Flint's now warmed back, and then he is left to conclude his evening and his tankard of ale.