Mark hates this month. Hates the snow, hates the changed terrain, hates the overly complicated clothing and the changes made to his belongings, hates how difficult the Compound was to find and how their number has suddenly doubled with the addition of natives of Victorian London. Even breathing the outside air causes him no end of grief, the soot and the stench of overflowing sewage enough to make him wish he could spend the rest of December with his nose pressed close to his elbow, if only because it might alleviate the coughing just a touch. After years of living on the shores of California, with trees planted judiciously all over campus, this particular change is nothing short of hell.
Again, Mark hates it.
But a man needs to eat. And no matter how many times he tries to haul someone into the household, some random kid who's probably otherwise freezing in the streets anyway, have them manage some kind of stew while Mark works on obtaining a store of food from the newly transformed Compound, it hasn't worked. The natives of London
( ... )
"Absolutely nothing," she mutters, taking his hand and carefully trying to stand. "My actions are rarely the result of good ideas." She huffs and pushes strands of hair off her face. "I hate this shit."
Whatever amount of anger, doused in fear, rose in him at the sight of Rachel on the ground manages to dissipate as soon as she starts caving in on herself with a great deal of self-directed criticisms. The fact that Rachel, who he so often finds to be one of the most positive people around in spite of all that cynicism, also hates the changes in the island leaves Mark feeling almost vindicated as the tension in his shoulders wears away long enough for him to get a better grip on her.
"Believe me," he says, breath slipping between his teeth in a hiss. "I hate this shit, too. Unlike you, though, I've spent a great deal of my life holed indoors for extended periods of time, so that doesn't leave me half as inclined to brave the horrible weather. Were you just going for a walk?"
"Yeah," she admits, wiping the slush off her stupid, ridiculous dress before tugging on the lapel of his jacket with a grin. He looks even more pissed than she does. "But don't tell Raylan. I implied that I wouldn't but I'm bored and I want some food. Come with me?"
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Again, Mark hates it.
But a man needs to eat. And no matter how many times he tries to haul someone into the household, some random kid who's probably otherwise freezing in the streets anyway, have them manage some kind of stew while Mark works on obtaining a store of food from the newly transformed Compound, it hasn't worked. The natives of London ( ... )
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"Believe me," he says, breath slipping between his teeth in a hiss. "I hate this shit, too. Unlike you, though, I've spent a great deal of my life holed indoors for extended periods of time, so that doesn't leave me half as inclined to brave the horrible weather. Were you just going for a walk?"
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