[ He can't get over how small her fingers are. It's worse when they're threaded through his, chilly little matchsticks brushing against sensitive, rarely touched skin. ]
It is creepy.
[ He hadn't put that exact word to it before, but it fits. All those hallways smelling of disinfectant without disease, lined with rooms of empty, neatly made beds. When he thinks abandoned hospital, he'd usually think of something out of a zombie movie, or something post-apocalyptic, a place where the disaster already came and went. This one feels like it's waiting for a disaster that hasn't happened yet.
But maybe all hospitals are like that, empty or full. Places where you wait for the worst to happen.
He can't tell the difference between the flare of grief from someone else and his own. They muddle together, boundaries dissolving. ]
If he's friendly, maybe he went towards the centre. [ He looks at Sydney, dark eyes heavy, and scrapes together a thin, barely reassuring smile. ] He could be looking for you.
[ He's not good at making other people feel better at the best of times. In the face of a stranger's sadness and worry, he's all but useless. The impulse he follows through on comes because he's at a loss, and he regrets its awkwardness as soon as he does it: a tentative squeeze of her hand, like he's not sure how much pressure he can risk. ]
no subject
It is creepy.
[ He hadn't put that exact word to it before, but it fits. All those hallways smelling of disinfectant without disease, lined with rooms of empty, neatly made beds. When he thinks abandoned hospital, he'd usually think of something out of a zombie movie, or something post-apocalyptic, a place where the disaster already came and went. This one feels like it's waiting for a disaster that hasn't happened yet.
But maybe all hospitals are like that, empty or full. Places where you wait for the worst to happen.
He can't tell the difference between the flare of grief from someone else and his own. They muddle together, boundaries dissolving. ]
If he's friendly, maybe he went towards the centre. [ He looks at Sydney, dark eyes heavy, and scrapes together a thin, barely reassuring smile. ] He could be looking for you.
[ He's not good at making other people feel better at the best of times. In the face of a stranger's sadness and worry, he's all but useless. The impulse he follows through on comes because he's at a loss, and he regrets its awkwardness as soon as he does it: a tentative squeeze of her hand, like he's not sure how much pressure he can risk. ]