[ In the doorway, God taps his foot and checks his nonexistent watch.
He had steadied Paul in the kitchen, when the boy first crumpled in on himself. He had drawn a worn black blanket around those thin shoulders while Paul huddled senseless with— pain? grief? disorientation? He cannot comprehend it, which is new and frankly fascinating. Whatever is happening before him is part of a closed system, and he hasn't found a way in. Not yet.
He hangs back and watches, all the same, as Paul crouches beside the long skinny flinch of Lazarus. He sees the movement in Paul's shoulders when he leans in, when he smooths a hand across the nape of a dying man's neck. He knows what he'll see on Paul's face in the moment before the boy turns, beseeching.
It's more like home than anything has been. There is something steadying about being able to answer a prayer.
God claps his hands together like a man pleased to be taken off the bench, a shock of noise in the ruined room, and he steps forward. ]
Well. [ Lazarus knows this tone: soft over something hard. ] This is a bit of a mess.
[ He takes no pleasure in the miserable, dying curl of this young man with his sad little fork tourniquet. The stink of blood is an embarrassment to everyone present. He's the adult wading into a kid's tantrum to dispense band-aids and time-outs; it'd be beneath him.
But he does hold Lazarus's dark eyes over Paul's shoulder. He pays no mind to Lycka; he steps past her as though she isn't there. ]
Not sure about your choice of location. It was a bit of a hike.
[ It put Paul to some inconvenience, he doesn't say, because the boy in question is still on his knees. Paul still looks as though he might tighten down to some singularity or he might shake apart. ]
no subject
He had steadied Paul in the kitchen, when the boy first crumpled in on himself. He had drawn a worn black blanket around those thin shoulders while Paul huddled senseless with— pain? grief? disorientation? He cannot comprehend it, which is new and frankly fascinating. Whatever is happening before him is part of a closed system, and he hasn't found a way in. Not yet.
He hangs back and watches, all the same, as Paul crouches beside the long skinny flinch of Lazarus. He sees the movement in Paul's shoulders when he leans in, when he smooths a hand across the nape of a dying man's neck. He knows what he'll see on Paul's face in the moment before the boy turns, beseeching.
It's more like home than anything has been. There is something steadying about being able to answer a prayer.
God claps his hands together like a man pleased to be taken off the bench, a shock of noise in the ruined room, and he steps forward. ]
Well. [ Lazarus knows this tone: soft over something hard. ] This is a bit of a mess.
[ He takes no pleasure in the miserable, dying curl of this young man with his sad little fork tourniquet. The stink of blood is an embarrassment to everyone present. He's the adult wading into a kid's tantrum to dispense band-aids and time-outs; it'd be beneath him.
But he does hold Lazarus's dark eyes over Paul's shoulder. He pays no mind to Lycka; he steps past her as though she isn't there. ]
Not sure about your choice of location. It was a bit of a hike.
[ It put Paul to some inconvenience, he doesn't say, because the boy in question is still on his knees. Paul still looks as though he might tighten down to some singularity or he might shake apart. ]