#maximus.

and max does:  spine,  pool cue straight,  perched on the third stair from the bottom, booted feet planted firmly on the carpeted floor to keep still.  the mojave glares back at him through the dust-clouded window overlook from behind the wall of flickering, motionless monitors.  difficult not to squint against the sunlight reflecting off the barren faces of rock and craggy dirt in its expanse — his cheek will pull tight,  then, and lucy is far too busy dabbing at the scrape along his temple,  and far too kind to do so to boot  —  and opts,  instead,  to fixate sidelong on the grief-creased,  yellow material pooling about her knees.

whatever lucy is doing to his face,  he doesn't feel the sting.  too busy inching his fingers towards the hem of her dress,  pinching it,  tracing the sewn edge with the calloused pad of his thumb in awe.