Yes now. He likes—driving in the Impala with you. It's familiar. In a strange way, it's comforting. It's not something he's been able to do in years. He leans away when you agree, giving you space to get up and fix the ignition. Once you head outside, he swallows another mouthful of whiskey and finds his boots and his jacket to pull on.
Down the hallway, in what remains of the bathroom, there are three knives arranged next to the sink, including the machete he found in the Impala's trunk. He debates bringing them. Apart from one altercation, he hasn't seen anything that suggested itself as a Leviathan. It's dark out and the roads around Bobby's house are empty. The chance that something will find them, find you, seems minimal.
He goes outside to meet you once his boots are on, sliding into the passenger seat and crowding into your space again, so that there's shoulders touch. His hand settles against your thigh, mid-way between your knee and your hip; his fingers curl around the inside, hanging on.
no subject
Down the hallway, in what remains of the bathroom, there are three knives arranged next to the sink, including the machete he found in the Impala's trunk. He debates bringing them. Apart from one altercation, he hasn't seen anything that suggested itself as a Leviathan. It's dark out and the roads around Bobby's house are empty. The chance that something will find them, find you, seems minimal.
He goes outside to meet you once his boots are on, sliding into the passenger seat and crowding into your space again, so that there's shoulders touch. His hand settles against your thigh, mid-way between your knee and your hip; his fingers curl around the inside, hanging on.