fortitudosalutis: (009)
Brandon Carver ([personal profile] fortitudosalutis) wrote in [personal profile] amicustenebris 2022-03-13 06:28 pm (UTC)

[ Carver shrugs, the gesture more casual than he feels. Just is what it is. If they’d been doing this back home, they would have done it in some dark corner - a hurried, fumbling thing, in all likelihood, done quietly so no one would hear. So the dead wouldn’t come sniffing around, so the living wouldn’t wonder. Last time he was with anyone back there was the scavenger couple a few years back, and they’d both clamped a hand over his mouth the whole time - a move they must have practiced on each other before they used it on him. He let them, though. And then he let them do a lot more than that.

It’s different now. He doesn’t know whether that’s better or not. ]


It’s fine.

[ He gets his coat off, following it with his shirt. The little knife he kept under his hood goes on top of the growing pile. A small concession. He keeps the other, for now, and then leans back to watch Gold. Shirtless, and strangely calm under the circumstances.

Underneath all his layers, he’s got some bad scars. A star-shaped divot over his collarbone where the bone punched through the skin. A bullet wound over his hip, faded pale over the years. Several newer slashes across his ribs, healing in spidery lines. And a dappling of pocked scars over his stomach where he nearly got torn apart by shrapnel before the world ended.

Everyone’s got their marks. He carries them, like he carries the unit tattoo on his arm and worse scars on his back. He got lucky, on balance. Never took any marks to the face. All his scars landed where he can hide them.

Just how it goes.

He tips his head back, watching Gold. He keeps the pendant on. That’s his, and only his. ]


I’m flexible. You got anything you don’t want, tell me.

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