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?
[While Ethan's mind is a throbbing, overthinking mess, Mal's reached a point where he can settle down and turn to much simpler thoughts: God I'm tired. Wow, that's a nasty cut. I wish Luna were here instead of what's-his-face. I want to be held. All the pleasantly inconsequential worries that feel light as a feather after his earlier paranoia and suspicions. A nice bit of respite before his fears crept up on him once again as he slept and began the cycle anew.
He reappears in the doorway and drops the damp, pinkened washcloth on Ethan's head as he passes him.]
Hate to disappoint you, but I've got bigger problems than crying over some stranger's death. Especially when it doesn't even last.
[As he speaks those words it does strike him that it's just a little messed up that he means them. Wasn't there a time when even hearing about unnecessary deaths of innocent people ate away at him for days, weeks? How many did he have to witness before he started growing numb to it? So much for letting his mind drift to the simple things.
He frowns a little to himself as he starts unrolling his futon. Forget this whole "being awake" thing. He is so ready to leave the waking world for a while.]
[ Wow, okay. Very little time is needed before the teen drags the cloth off his head. Like he wasn't dirty enough already, he has to have another dude's blood crust on him (how'd he get hurt, anyway? Maybe he got into a fight, it wasn't improbable). Making a face to the comment, Ethan is reminded of someone else, a conversation that only seems to further upset his flipping stomach and still too fresh in his mind to stick in a mental drawer. He has reasons not to argue with that anymore, he had his opinions and everyone else had theirs. With a huff, he balls the dirtied fabric with his own shirt, and calls out as he leans his body to the wall. He'll clean these . . . Soon. Himself, too.. ]
But that's actually a pretty valid question so fine. After all, he was pretty horrified when he found it out himself. He leans over to his little personal pile of stuff and pokes around in it while he offers his casual answer.]
Some magic the Witch has over the workers. You die, you come right back. I think most people know about it.
[That doesn't mean he particularly wants to experience the pain of death anytime soon. Or anything that could be worse than death. He fishes a switchblade out of the pile and tucks it under his pillow. Good. Now he can settle down.]
Don't get carried away with that. Who knows when it wears off.
[He grunts and rolls over to put his back to Ethan. Congratulations! He trusts considers you enough of a non-threat to do that.]
So they definitely weren't talking about the same thing. Don't mind him trying to cover his gawking (poorly), eyes almost owlish as he tries to pick that up. His analysis could only go so far on its own. The Witch can bring people back— Just how much power does she have? Is she a Goddess? Can she bring other people back, too? ]
She can really do that?
[ Even if he's talking to himself at this point, he holds the bundle to his legs. Catching a glimpse of a blade makes his glance linger, soundlessly slipping down to the ground (the landing isn't too graceful, alas), and keeping the clothes on his lap. More sleep wouldn't be such a bad idea if, you know, he hadn't been TENDERIZED to consciousness. And with that bit of information? It makes his head corkscrew so bad he's too gross to sleep yet. Maybe a shower was in order, he doesn't— feel good.
—And then you get his name wrong, enough that he shrivels like a plant. That sure is a trip down memory lane that he'd rather conk out of his life, forever. ]
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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?
[ ???? ]
no subject
He reappears in the doorway and drops the damp, pinkened washcloth on Ethan's head as he passes him.]
Hate to disappoint you, but I've got bigger problems than crying over some stranger's death. Especially when it doesn't even last.
[As he speaks those words it does strike him that it's just a little messed up that he means them. Wasn't there a time when even hearing about unnecessary deaths of innocent people ate away at him for days, weeks? How many did he have to witness before he started growing numb to it? So much for letting his mind drift to the simple things.
He frowns a little to himself as he starts unrolling his futon. Forget this whole "being awake" thing. He is so ready to leave the waking world for a while.]
no subject
How'd you even know?
no subject
But that's actually a pretty valid question so fine. After all, he was pretty horrified when he found it out himself. He leans over to his little personal pile of stuff and pokes around in it while he offers his casual answer.]
Some magic the Witch has over the workers. You die, you come right back. I think most people know about it.
[That doesn't mean he particularly wants to experience the pain of death anytime soon. Or anything that could be worse than death. He fishes a switchblade out of the pile and tucks it under his pillow. Good. Now he can settle down.]
Don't get carried away with that. Who knows when it wears off.
[He grunts and rolls over to put his back to Ethan. Congratulations! He
trustsconsiders you enough of a non-threat to do that.]Now go back to sleep, Erik.
no subject
Okay.
So they definitely weren't talking about the same thing. Don't mind him trying to cover his gawking (poorly), eyes almost owlish as he tries to pick that up. His analysis could only go so far on its own. The Witch can bring people back— Just how much power does she have? Is she a Goddess? Can she bring other people back, too? ]
She can really do that?
[ Even if he's talking to himself at this point, he holds the bundle to his legs. Catching a glimpse of a blade makes his glance linger, soundlessly slipping down to the ground (the landing isn't too graceful, alas), and keeping the clothes on his lap. More sleep wouldn't be such a bad idea if, you know, he hadn't been TENDERIZED to consciousness. And with that bit of information? It makes his head corkscrew so bad he's too gross to sleep yet. Maybe a shower was in order, he doesn't— feel good.
—And then you get his name wrong, enough that he shrivels like a plant. That sure is a trip down memory lane that he'd rather conk out of his life, forever. ]
. . . It's Ethan.
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no subject
ok
let him just