(But she pulls back and edits her spot, moving to make room for him to sit close if he wants — which he does, to an extent. There's that raspy, warm tobacco smell, old iron hiding underneath; smoke and blood, the scent that clings to him. Ptolemais relaxes. Slowly, testing waters, she extends her leg back out across his lap.)
You don't celebrate Thanksgiving? (He crashed the party for the pie and left.)
[He seems to relax a little bit more when she shows comfort around him, leg across him - his hand resting against her shin. He snorts a bit, then shakes his head.]
Not really - we, my family, we had our own weird holidays so I get the gist of it. But I didn't grow up with it and I didn't know half the people there so... I got the good stuff an' ran. Best way to deal with holidays in my opinion, eh?
(She likes that, the weight of his arm on her shin. It's grounding.)
I mean — I dunno. I haven't been home for the holidays in a couple years. And it doesn't even feel like the holidays anyway... the seasons are backwards. It should be getting hot.
You and I have that in common then - the not being home for a while. I like that people come together for stuff like this but I still feel like more of an outsider than not. It's just kind of who I am.
This world is upside down. (She jiggles his hand with her shin.)
My family likes to come together. It's not like I'm not invited or anything, I... (she sighs gustily and closes her eyes for a moment, frowning.) Can't make myself go. Dunno why.
[Finch would meet with his siblings if he could, he thinks. But he can't, or couldn't either - for reasons he wants to say are out of his control. But also might be a consequence of his own actions.]
We ever get out of this place, I'll invite you to my motel room for the holidays. Or we can celebrate in the back of my car. Or, well, your place.
Nah, not mine. I live with four other people. (And bringing Finch back to that feels... awkward, somehow.) But celebrating in the back of your car sounds good. What kind of celebrations?
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(But she pulls back and edits her spot, moving to make room for him to sit close if he wants — which he does, to an extent. There's that raspy, warm tobacco smell, old iron hiding underneath; smoke and blood, the scent that clings to him. Ptolemais relaxes. Slowly, testing waters, she extends her leg back out across his lap.)
You don't celebrate Thanksgiving? (He crashed the party for the pie and left.)
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Not really - we, my family, we had our own weird holidays so I get the gist of it. But I didn't grow up with it and I didn't know half the people there so... I got the good stuff an' ran. Best way to deal with holidays in my opinion, eh?
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(She likes that, the weight of his arm on her shin. It's grounding.)
I mean — I dunno. I haven't been home for the holidays in a couple years. And it doesn't even feel like the holidays anyway... the seasons are backwards. It should be getting hot.
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[Playfully said. His hand stays where it is.]
You and I have that in common then - the not being home for a while. I like that people come together for stuff like this but I still feel like more of an outsider than not. It's just kind of who I am.
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My family likes to come together. It's not like I'm not invited or anything, I... (she sighs gustily and closes her eyes for a moment, frowning.) Can't make myself go. Dunno why.
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We ever get out of this place, I'll invite you to my motel room for the holidays. Or we can celebrate in the back of my car. Or, well, your place.
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Nah, not mine. I live with four other people. (And bringing Finch back to that feels... awkward, somehow.) But celebrating in the back of your car sounds good. What kind of celebrations?
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[He smiles, raising his brows.]
And dogs. You like dogs? Better say yeah, just sayin'.
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Wish I could get a dog. It's not really possible until I have my own house, you know?
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[Smiling, very team 'don't wait'.]