Lips press tightly together when that's said, shutting him up like an easy, easy zipper that just needed a light little pull. His eyes still stay though, wandering to what his foggy vision could pick up in the dimly lit room. One thing that Ethan has crossing his mind, with the cuts, the scars— is he trying to say something? Wait. But why would he have scars if he'd just reset sooner or later if he were a . . .
Nah. He disregards the thought as silly of him, especially when the prosthetic comes off.
Down comes the nervous fumbling of fingers in hands, though, because something's really not adding up. He didn't know something that the other man did, and when Mallory turns to go to the bathroom, it leaves Ethan in quiet thought— maybe too much of it at this hour, with his entire being still feeling bleh. You can imagine how much he really did drink before enough to do something stupid enough to reset, then drink a little extra after that with a clean slate.
Both hands come up to rub his face, run through his mess of hair while water runs— that was dangerous clurichaun booze that he'll think twice about revisiting, as much as it really felt like a blessing at the time. Post boozing has not been a blessing. Nevertheless, Ethan forces himself to stand with a wince, eyes shutting tô hold the headache together; with fingers to his temple, he follows after, a question beginning to form right at the tip of his tongue.
Mallory speaks up right when he turn the corner to the doorway, nearly jumping out of his skin and holding the wall to prevent a stumble back. A blink, and for the duration of that silence afterwards, he's almost forgotten to answer. Don't get him wrong, it's not that there's something after him, it's just— well, nothings after him. But why is he dropping?? These hints?? ]
—Oh, uh— N-no, nothing's. Nothing's following me. [ . . . At least he thinks. He looks down at his shirt, the sleeves, stained and still gross. He tugs at the fabric to get a better look, features giving a slight grimace. He needs to wash this off, at sloppily pulls at his clothes to pop it over his head.
With them in his hands, he asks, quietly and with surprised caution, ] So . . . You don't care?
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Lips press tightly together when that's said, shutting him up like an easy, easy zipper that just needed a light little pull. His eyes still stay though, wandering to what his foggy vision could pick up in the dimly lit room. One thing that Ethan has crossing his mind, with the cuts, the scars— is he trying to say something? Wait. But why would he have scars if he'd just reset sooner or later if he were a . . .
Nah. He disregards the thought as silly of him, especially when the prosthetic comes off.
Down comes the nervous fumbling of fingers in hands, though, because something's really not adding up. He didn't know something that the other man did, and when Mallory turns to go to the bathroom, it leaves Ethan in quiet thought— maybe too much of it at this hour, with his entire being still feeling bleh. You can imagine how much he really did drink before enough to do something stupid enough to reset, then drink a little extra after that with a clean slate.
Both hands come up to rub his face, run through his mess of hair while water runs— that was dangerous clurichaun booze that he'll think twice about revisiting, as much as it really felt like a blessing at the time. Post boozing has not been a blessing. Nevertheless, Ethan forces himself to stand with a wince, eyes shutting tô hold the headache together; with fingers to his temple, he follows after, a question beginning to form right at the tip of his tongue.
Mallory speaks up right when he turn the corner to the doorway, nearly jumping out of his skin and holding the wall to prevent a stumble back. A blink, and for the duration of that silence afterwards, he's almost forgotten to answer. Don't get him wrong, it's not that there's something after him, it's just— well, nothings after him. But why is he dropping?? These hints?? ]
—Oh, uh— N-no, nothing's. Nothing's following me. [ . . . At least he thinks. He looks down at his shirt, the sleeves, stained and still gross. He tugs at the fabric to get a better look, features giving a slight grimace. He needs to wash this off, at sloppily pulls at his clothes to pop it over his head.
With them in his hands, he asks, quietly and with surprised caution, ] So . . . You don't care?
[ ???? ]