if you show, you show (closed & complete)
WHO: Mello (virucide) & Matt (lungrot).
WHAT: The comfort log?
WHERE: Car, then their apartment.
WHEN: Day 76, after this.
When Mello slides at last into the back seat with Matt's help--as much as he'd insisted he was fine, could very well manage alone (which isn't completely true; he can't do much with his injured leg above a painful limp)--it doesn't hurt. Whatever he'd taken earlier has worked its drugged magic; there's a dull ache thrumming through him, but Mello, he's just struggling to stay awake. He's gone hollow since ending the call with Matt, since waiting for the redhead's arrival. Since the bone saw touched his skin. He's withdrawn into his mind. He barely glances Matt's way when the other shows up, can't bring himself to make the extended effort of conversation. His speech is limited to pinched grunts and teeth-clenched hisses. (Then again, it may be the painkillers.)
What's there to say?
The seat is warm under his head. Mello stares at the flat roof of the car, cradling the splint on his hand against his tender chest, dressed now in clothes he'd borrowed from Dexter. They're too big, hang off his narrow body too loosely, but they're comfortable. There's a sullenness to his expression, a darkness usually lit by humor and fire, a downward twist to his lips that symbolizes his current state of mind: vacant.
He doesn't speak. He just lays there, and counts his breaths.
WHAT: The comfort log?
WHERE: Car, then their apartment.
WHEN: Day 76, after this.
When Mello slides at last into the back seat with Matt's help--as much as he'd insisted he was fine, could very well manage alone (which isn't completely true; he can't do much with his injured leg above a painful limp)--it doesn't hurt. Whatever he'd taken earlier has worked its drugged magic; there's a dull ache thrumming through him, but Mello, he's just struggling to stay awake. He's gone hollow since ending the call with Matt, since waiting for the redhead's arrival. Since the bone saw touched his skin. He's withdrawn into his mind. He barely glances Matt's way when the other shows up, can't bring himself to make the extended effort of conversation. His speech is limited to pinched grunts and teeth-clenched hisses. (Then again, it may be the painkillers.)
What's there to say?
The seat is warm under his head. Mello stares at the flat roof of the car, cradling the splint on his hand against his tender chest, dressed now in clothes he'd borrowed from Dexter. They're too big, hang off his narrow body too loosely, but they're comfortable. There's a sullenness to his expression, a darkness usually lit by humor and fire, a downward twist to his lips that symbolizes his current state of mind: vacant.
He doesn't speak. He just lays there, and counts his breaths.