#theirkind

* HEAD FULL OF SNOW : OPEN

“ Oh come on, the  best pranks  are. “ 

He chuckles, but the question of how he found Adam was a valid one. It’s easy really when you have the tracking skills and heightened senses, but that’s not something he’s likely to reveal to the other. Not even his best friend knows about what he can do at this moment in time... that sort of trust is something he doesn’t give easily. So instead his index finger lifts to his nose, tapping it slightly with a grin.

“ Got a  GOOD NOSE  I guess. “

And it’s not even a lie.

     her assessment is conducted silently , a background process listing queries and hunting down visual clues to figure out who , or what exactly , she’s dealing with . textbook inquiries chasing each other along his features and returning the data of a scattered gaze , a mysterious scratch , dirt under his nails . there is more to him than the cold politeness of his question — agent thomas tilts her head slightly enough to change her own perspective , keep herself engaged to her visual analysis . she’s calm in doing so : more time than necessary taken for each careful motion around the steel table ( yes , this is an interrogation room , in a practical sense : in a much more metaphorical one , it’s whateer room it’s needed on such short notice ) . once she’s somewhat satisfied , she takes her place on a chair opposite him , back relaxed against the chair , coffee in hand , and then she looks — a smile , halfway from understanding to ironic . “ why , do you have anything you wanna tell me ? ”

❛     𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄 ?      ❜       ———      tomorrow is another day ?    what is that shit ?    some kind of Instagram positivism post ?     bullshit.      ❛     it sucks     ❜         she sentences,     the frown on her forehead soothing as she reclines back against the chair         ❛      but thank you for being totally not helpful at all !     ❜       a sharp roll of her eyes,    spontaneous.    motions accompanied by a huffed sigh     ❛     really !    ❜      she finishes then,   intertwining her fingers and placing her hands atop her stomach.

(she is not holding the phone.)

“i bet lots of people ask you the same thing.”

(there is no phone, just crackling air, static slipping off her tongue and giving her throat an ache. he doesn’t know this. can’t know it. but he’s good for something, surely, that tender brain of his humming away like a little machine, like they all do.)

“bet you hate it when it comes down to you. they don’t pay you enough for this, do they?”

house of leaves: accepting.

     “That what all this is?” A heavy-ringed hand twists on a lamp, shedding warm light onto the table below. Outside, dusk has fallen, and up until now– the room’s been bathed in half-light. It ain’t polite, nosing through the things of a man you’ve just met, but there’s a strange feeling out in these woods, in this old house of Adam’s, that Roland just can’t shake.