As she leaves the room, Jon reaches obediently for the hem of his shirt and carefully hauls it off so sheβll be able to reach it better, wincing slightly as it pulls at some of the dried blood, the scabs tugging. It rips some of the scabs open — heβs bleeding again — and he crumples the tattered fabric of the shirt in his human fist, now sitting patient.
He waits on the sofa, straight-backed and motionless while Maryβs gone, with barely a flicker or tic of muscle. It makes him look like a clockwork soldier whoβs run down, stationary and watchful with no one around to give him orders, content to sit and wait in silence for as long as it takes until she returns. He could sit there for hours.
no subject
He waits on the sofa, straight-backed and motionless while Maryβs gone, with barely a flicker or tic of muscle. It makes him look like a clockwork soldier whoβs run down, stationary and watchful with no one around to give him orders, content to sit and wait in silence for as long as it takes until she returns. He could sit there for hours.