[ The lack of pity in her expression is appreciated. He doesn't need pity. Doesn't want it. Would be more likely to bare his teeth and snarl than swallow the sympathies of someone who felt sorry for him.
Maine hasn't learned the lessons Carolina has. He still smacks away helping hands — even though he can no longer growl, "Get off me." Still bristles at the very idea of feeling weak.
(And oh, had he felt weak. Thrown flat on his back, reeling from the point-blank shot beneath his chin. Stepped on, boot over the bullet wound in his chest. Unable to do anything as the muzzle flashed again and again and again...)
But, when he feels Carolina's eyes on him, there's nothing off about her gaze. Just understanding. And she picks up on what he was trying to say, smoothing past it with a joke that doesn't feel forced. That, too, he appreciates.
A little gesture to his middle shows off the sad lack of pockets. Plenty of magnetic locks, if they happen to want to snag a few knives. But nothing fit for smuggling away food.
When she looks him over, visually assessing his status, he doesn't mind. That's fine. Normal. Part of being mission-ready. When she lingers at his neck, his stillness is more deliberate.
Maine's never been shy, and he's long since grown accustomed to people staring at him. So it's strange, having to fight the urge to shift in something like discomfort.
Her words receive a hum of agreement. That, at least, sounds mostly as it should. Definitely a "you, too," even if it's rough around the edges. He tilts his head slightly at her emphasis. Requesting clarification, if she'll give it — but willing to let it go. ]
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Maine hasn't learned the lessons Carolina has. He still smacks away helping hands — even though he can no longer growl, "Get off me." Still bristles at the very idea of feeling weak.
(And oh, had he felt weak. Thrown flat on his back, reeling from the point-blank shot beneath his chin. Stepped on, boot over the bullet wound in his chest. Unable to do anything as the muzzle flashed again and again and again...)
But, when he feels Carolina's eyes on him, there's nothing off about her gaze. Just understanding. And she picks up on what he was trying to say, smoothing past it with a joke that doesn't feel forced. That, too, he appreciates.
A little gesture to his middle shows off the sad lack of pockets. Plenty of magnetic locks, if they happen to want to snag a few knives. But nothing fit for smuggling away food.
When she looks him over, visually assessing his status, he doesn't mind. That's fine. Normal. Part of being mission-ready. When she lingers at his neck, his stillness is more deliberate.
Maine's never been shy, and he's long since grown accustomed to people staring at him. So it's strange, having to fight the urge to shift in something like discomfort.
Her words receive a hum of agreement. That, at least, sounds mostly as it should. Definitely a "you, too," even if it's rough around the edges. He tilts his head slightly at her emphasis. Requesting clarification, if she'll give it — but willing to let it go. ]