#pregame.

nonverbal prompts

For one thing, she was holding her champagne flute the wrong way. Not that she ever understood how you hold something wrong, aside from dropping it. But her knuckles were white against the stem of the glass, and somewhere in the back of her mind she noted that she was doing something wrong.

Funny, that. Her parents laid dead in their casket not twenty feet away, but their displeasure still managed to reach her. Reminding her of every little fuck up that could and would occur at this sort of event, with all the ones she’d made in the past as a fun little example. People murmured their condolences and respects to one another. Her plus one stood impatient by her side, but their voice was miles away. Everything had muddled together, except the image of her own hand clenching a glass ‘til the liquid inside shook and her own brain scolding her to let go.

She doesn’t notice John’s broken away from the crowd until there’s a tug on her jacket. The feeling managed to drag her out of her thoughts, enough to notice that he was readjusting her jacket. The lapels were now even, her collar no longer sticking up.

His eyes were tinged with red, and she could imagine they looked mournful to the audience gathered in the hall. She finally loosened her grip, setting down the glass to grab his arm.

Moshe stepped into the lounge. He was obviously the only one here yet, unless someone was hiding in the closet. He hadn’t been in one for a long time.

He took a seat on one of the round couches and took his sunglasses off, hanging it on the hem of his shirt. Stretching out comfortably, he gazed around the room. That was when he caught sight of something... His eyebrows raised.

There was a CCTV camera in the corner of the room. Now, Moshe had to be aware that this was Big Brother, and he was supposed to be being watched. However, the man had such a disdain for surveillance that he had to go up to it and stare disapprovingly in its eye.

“Curse your wretched gaze, bastard.”

nonverbal prompts 

She could feel the headache forming long before she’d even clocked in. And the day had proven to be just as miserable as she’d expected. Every word felt like a rock hammering into her head, every movement made her either jump or freeze in place. The sheriff had to dismiss her halfway through the day when she’d snapped at someone for letting their phone ring too loud. Told her to rest at home, and work out whatever was making her so tense.

( A pamphlet for Eden’s Gate had mysterious turned up on her doorstep that morning. Proclaiming to the world how they could purify her soul of its sins. She’d heard that phrase all day, clattering around in the back of her brain like someone shaking a jar full of marbles. )

If only to spite Whitehorse, Wren found herself wandering the town. Still too proud to go into the Spread Eagle at one in the afternoon, but not enough that loitering seemed like a bad idea. Some people tried to talk to her, all brushed off in silence.

All except Eliza. If anything, them stumbling into each other seemed to be the first thing to go right in the day. Wren didn’t say much. Didn’t offer any explanation for what she was doing. But she’d never had a good poker face. Or maybe Eliza had just gotten good at reading her.

When she reached her hand out like an offering, it didn’t silence everything completely. Of course not. But the feeling of something stable to hold at the very least made everything tolerable.

She tried to follow Eliza’s gestures, but it seemed whatever remained of the dirt she thought she managed to scrub off in the station’s bathroom was in an awkward position. Just a little lower than her eye. The spot where the touch of Eliza’s thumb still seems to linger, the sensation caked in deeper than any of the dirt had been.

She resists the urge to run her hand against the spot, lowering the hand she hadn’t realized she was raising. Strange. Stranger still, Eliza was still watching her.

Wren smiles, and it doesn’t feel like she’s forcing a skill that doesn’t come naturally.