Nick reaches out for Will's shoulder instinctively, but then he thinks better of it. He glances down at his outstretched hand, then back up to Will with a faint little smile. There's amusement there, the soft, worn type like a cloth wrung too many times, and it's entirely self-directed. He draws back and tips his head towards his room down the hall.
Let's agree nobody gets killed, OK? He hands Will that note with due seriousness, tilting his head as his smile disappears in the wake of lifted eyebrows. Don't be sorry. He adds that on a second note, and then starts guiding Will towards his room with the watchfulness of a shepherd.
He wasn't lying. His room is close, even though the numbering system makes no sense, and the door itself doesn't match the two on either side. His key (a real metal one) clicks home, and he opens up on a room that could be a college student's. Or a halfway house resident's. The walls are a warm but quiet beige, with white bordering. The bed is a single with neat, almost military cornering on the sheets. There are no pictures, but the desk next to the bed (with a minifridge underneath) has an open notebook on it--one without writing in it, yet. The flooring is rough green carpet.
The most personal touch Nick has left on it, besides the way he made the bed, is a single white daisy in a blue coffee mug.
He pulls the wooden chair away from the desk, but gestures at the bed for Will--it's softer, but it's his choice.
Do you want anything? I have water. Nick leans against the desk for now, eyes back on Will--the room is small enough that if he writes in reasonably large letters it's legible from anywhere. That's something for it. He flips the page and adds: I don't know what's going on, you should know that. Bright side: no one does.
no subject
Let's agree nobody gets killed, OK? He hands Will that note with due seriousness, tilting his head as his smile disappears in the wake of lifted eyebrows. Don't be sorry. He adds that on a second note, and then starts guiding Will towards his room with the watchfulness of a shepherd.
He wasn't lying. His room is close, even though the numbering system makes no sense, and the door itself doesn't match the two on either side. His key (a real metal one) clicks home, and he opens up on a room that could be a college student's. Or a halfway house resident's. The walls are a warm but quiet beige, with white bordering. The bed is a single with neat, almost military cornering on the sheets. There are no pictures, but the desk next to the bed (with a minifridge underneath) has an open notebook on it--one without writing in it, yet. The flooring is rough green carpet.
The most personal touch Nick has left on it, besides the way he made the bed, is a single white daisy in a blue coffee mug.
He pulls the wooden chair away from the desk, but gestures at the bed for Will--it's softer, but it's his choice.
Do you want anything? I have water. Nick leans against the desk for now, eyes back on Will--the room is small enough that if he writes in reasonably large letters it's legible from anywhere. That's something for it. He flips the page and adds: I don't know what's going on, you should know that. Bright side: no one does.