[ wash meanwhile, likes stairs, likes to keep himself moving and keep his wits about him always, and there's something he always dislikes about small, enclosed spaces. but he's learned to curb that instinct over many, many years, or at least restrain it, quiet it. he hardly has the same relationship with movement that someone like pietro must, though, and he watches pietro fidget, shift, react to the sound of the elevator -- and then disappear in a blur. interesting.
when wash steps out of the elevator, he's still spinning that knife. its' an idle action, completely habitual. he likes knives, is good with them, overlooked by many of his peers back home but he tends to do better than even them at anything that's a little more down to earth, simple, practical. he feels at home with a knife in his hand and a pistol in his grip. the eigth floor really is so much more quiet without south and sombra here. pietro's there, impatient, drumming his fingers against the wall, and wash will go ahead to his apartments door and gesture pietro inside.
its plain, in here. simple, spartan. for a man who's lived here for two years the space doesn't look lived in at all, hardly changed from the default that he was given when he first showed up to the city. pietro wouldn't be blamed ( or even entirely inaccurate ) for assuming that he's been taken not to wash's home but to just an extra apartment he's still keeping for reasons like this. really, wash is just concerned with simple practicalities -- and after two years still hasn't really learned how to see this place like a home.
once they're inside, though, with wash locking the door behind them. ]
Thanks.
[ just the single word. thanks for following him here, putting up with him even though pietro clearly is mostly concerned with immediate satisfaction, for giving him that one line in the sand even hen he clearly didn't understand the point of it. wash's focus is already locked back on pietro. narrowed, focused, that familiar predatory shift in his eyes, and they've not even stepped very far into his apartment but his hand is gripping over his waist again, fingers sliding into place over old bruises, hooking a little into the belt loops of his pants to draw him closer. he doesn't crowd all of his space just yet, keeping himself at arm's length, but this is, after all, his space. its like he's looming over him anyway.
one more twirl of the knife in his other hand, and he doesn't hesitate. a bit of his own impatience, a bit of wanting to give pietro a reward for being here with him, and the motion really is the same as if he was about to plunge the knife into pietro's chest. but instead the edge of the knife is suddenly pressed against pietro's chest with the tip digging ever so slightly into the corner of one collarbone. finally in full sight and held close its clear this knife is a hell of a difference from the lighter throwing one, a full eight inches, the metal dark and glinting in a way that might show its more than simple steel. more pressure, the knife cuts in, almost too easily, designed to cut into so much more than just flesh. not too deep, yet, just enough to draw blood, and wash draws a line across his chest. watching him. just to see pietro react.
calmly, conversationally, at the exact same time, even with that clear hunger burning in his eyes as he glides the blade across one collarbone. ]
Do you heal?
[ he doesn't know the depths of what pietro can do, after all. and he's seen what's possible, out there. ]
no subject
when wash steps out of the elevator, he's still spinning that knife. its' an idle action, completely habitual. he likes knives, is good with them, overlooked by many of his peers back home but he tends to do better than even them at anything that's a little more down to earth, simple, practical. he feels at home with a knife in his hand and a pistol in his grip. the eigth floor really is so much more quiet without south and sombra here. pietro's there, impatient, drumming his fingers against the wall, and wash will go ahead to his apartments door and gesture pietro inside.
its plain, in here. simple, spartan. for a man who's lived here for two years the space doesn't look lived in at all, hardly changed from the default that he was given when he first showed up to the city. pietro wouldn't be blamed ( or even entirely inaccurate ) for assuming that he's been taken not to wash's home but to just an extra apartment he's still keeping for reasons like this. really, wash is just concerned with simple practicalities -- and after two years still hasn't really learned how to see this place like a home.
once they're inside, though, with wash locking the door behind them. ]
Thanks.
[ just the single word. thanks for following him here, putting up with him even though pietro clearly is mostly concerned with immediate satisfaction, for giving him that one line in the sand even hen he clearly didn't understand the point of it. wash's focus is already locked back on pietro. narrowed, focused, that familiar predatory shift in his eyes, and they've not even stepped very far into his apartment but his hand is gripping over his waist again, fingers sliding into place over old bruises, hooking a little into the belt loops of his pants to draw him closer. he doesn't crowd all of his space just yet, keeping himself at arm's length, but this is, after all, his space. its like he's looming over him anyway.
one more twirl of the knife in his other hand, and he doesn't hesitate. a bit of his own impatience, a bit of wanting to give pietro a reward for being here with him, and the motion really is the same as if he was about to plunge the knife into pietro's chest. but instead the edge of the knife is suddenly pressed against pietro's chest with the tip digging ever so slightly into the corner of one collarbone. finally in full sight and held close its clear this knife is a hell of a difference from the lighter throwing one, a full eight inches, the metal dark and glinting in a way that might show its more than simple steel. more pressure, the knife cuts in, almost too easily, designed to cut into so much more than just flesh. not too deep, yet, just enough to draw blood, and wash draws a line across his chest. watching him. just to see pietro react.
calmly, conversationally, at the exact same time, even with that clear hunger burning in his eyes as he glides the blade across one collarbone. ]
Do you heal?
[ he doesn't know the depths of what pietro can do, after all. and he's seen what's possible, out there. ]