( the room is different from his last room in the down provided housing, but sparser now, unlittered with any of his personal belongings or glittering collection of half-empty liquor bottles. his rig is tucked away in a sturdy container that he assumes belonged to either ephemera or crais, shoved beneath his rack once he was finished scanning it for any recent cosmetic defects and system bugs, shit he'd need to eventually fix before it saw active use again.
there weren't any that he could find. ephemera took good care of it in his absence. crais, too, though felix suspects he never touched it to begin with and that it sat in his apartment collecting dust until felix returned to collect it like a wayward stray.
he swallows a mouthful of smoke as the door creaks open behind him and ephemera says his name, gravel-scuffed, upsettingly familiar. part of him doesn't want to look at him. part of him wants to tell him to leave his gear on the bed and get the fuck out. that's how it always starts. looking at him. seeing him as anything other than an asset to be squeezed dry and discarded. but felix isn't a bitch. he turns and wedges his shoulder against the wall, leveling his eyes on ephemera's face. he seems different. less twitchy. his hair's longer now. no more prosthetic, either. idly, he wonders how long he's gone without it.
other than his taped-up knuckles, felix is a mirror image of the man who disappeared from the city three months ago: neatly dressed in the clothes he arrived (and disappeared) in, with his heavy black boots laced up to his calves over his jeans and his hair aggressively finger-combed away from his face. one unruly strand falls in a silky-dark wisp across his forehead. )
Sure as fuck don't, but you can have mine. ( he holds out his busted hand, cigarette dangling between two long, inked-up fingers. an olive branch, or a i come in peace until you give me a reason to bite offering. ) C'mere, T.
( no challenge or dare in it. he's unreasonably tired for a man who's just come back from the dead. again. )
no subject
there weren't any that he could find. ephemera took good care of it in his absence. crais, too, though felix suspects he never touched it to begin with and that it sat in his apartment collecting dust until felix returned to collect it like a wayward stray.
he swallows a mouthful of smoke as the door creaks open behind him and ephemera says his name, gravel-scuffed, upsettingly familiar. part of him doesn't want to look at him. part of him wants to tell him to leave his gear on the bed and get the fuck out. that's how it always starts. looking at him. seeing him as anything other than an asset to be squeezed dry and discarded. but felix isn't a bitch. he turns and wedges his shoulder against the wall, leveling his eyes on ephemera's face. he seems different. less twitchy. his hair's longer now. no more prosthetic, either. idly, he wonders how long he's gone without it.
other than his taped-up knuckles, felix is a mirror image of the man who disappeared from the city three months ago: neatly dressed in the clothes he arrived (and disappeared) in, with his heavy black boots laced up to his calves over his jeans and his hair aggressively finger-combed away from his face. one unruly strand falls in a silky-dark wisp across his forehead. )
Sure as fuck don't, but you can have mine. ( he holds out his busted hand, cigarette dangling between two long, inked-up fingers. an olive branch, or a i come in peace until you give me a reason to bite offering. ) C'mere, T.
( no challenge or dare in it. he's unreasonably tired for a man who's just come back from the dead. again. )