Three seconds is more than long enough for someone sitting near the door to look up and see who's standing there. More than long enough to register the missing prosthesis, and the look in his eyes.
Andrew's rising to his feet before Gaeta speaks, and then he's diving for the door, hand outstretched to grab it before it closes.
His palm slams stingingly against metal, and his gaze swings up toward Gaeta's face.
'Stricken' might be a good word. Certainly far more so than Gaeta was three seconds ago.
'Poleaxed' would serve better.
(He left, deliberately, with no good-bye, and this is exactly the frakking reason why he did it -- everything had finally lined up and fit together and now it's unraveling and tangling just like before, he cannot do this again -- )
The initial bewilderment is scaling up into alarm, as Andrew's gaze flicks past Gaeta into the unfamiliar room, no sign of the prosthesis or the crutch anywhere nearby, and back to his face.
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Andrew's rising to his feet before Gaeta speaks, and then he's diving for the door, hand outstretched to grab it before it closes.
His palm slams stingingly against metal, and his gaze swings up toward Gaeta's face.
And for a breath, nothing moves.
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'Poleaxed' would serve better.
(He left, deliberately, with no good-bye, and this is exactly the frakking reason why he did it -- everything had finally lined up and fit together and now it's unraveling and tangling just like before, he cannot do this again -- )
"Andrew." Low. Pleading, nearly. "Don't do this."
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The initial bewilderment is scaling up into alarm, as Andrew's gaze flicks past Gaeta into the unfamiliar room, no sign of the prosthesis or the crutch anywhere nearby, and back to his face.
"Where are you? What's ..."
He falters.
"What's going on?"
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If he tries to lean enough weight against it to shove it closed, he'll lose his balance. Especially if Andrew shoves back.
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