[He flushes and jerks his foot away a little, as if he touched fire.]
I can do it myself-- [He says, not to Ed so much as the couch, in a tone more pleading than it is sullen and upset. But by then, his leg has already been repositioned and there's nothing more for him to do.
A goon once said, on a bad day, that he ought to pay one of Gotham's top back alley butchers to see if he could break and reset the bones, and was lucky not to caught a bullet between the eyes for the unsolicited advice. It's too late in the game for him to experience any sort of improvement, he tells himself, or that whatever pinning his re-fractured bones in place could accomplish wouldn't be worth the misery. His hopes of someday walking painlessly were dashed long before Jim put a round in his leg.
He looks to his lap, twisting a loose fold of his robe in his hands. Ed's less-than-ideal eating habits are worth addressing, but he's left fumbling to pick up the conversation where it dropped hard, unsure how to carry on as though nothing happened and everything is fine.
He grabs a dry cut of sausage and gnaws on it for a while, not quite as ravenous as before.]
You should eat. [He urges, as if Ed hasn't been at all, dimly focused on a toothpick he's turning between his fingers.] There's nothing you'll find under a wrapper that is better than this, I promise you.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2019-12-07 07:08 pm (UTC)I can do it myself-- [He says, not to Ed so much as the couch, in a tone more pleading than it is sullen and upset. But by then, his leg has already been repositioned and there's nothing more for him to do.
A goon once said, on a bad day, that he ought to pay one of Gotham's top back alley butchers to see if he could break and reset the bones, and was lucky not to caught a bullet between the eyes for the unsolicited advice. It's too late in the game for him to experience any sort of improvement, he tells himself, or that whatever pinning his re-fractured bones in place could accomplish wouldn't be worth the misery. His hopes of someday walking painlessly were dashed long before Jim put a round in his leg.
He looks to his lap, twisting a loose fold of his robe in his hands. Ed's less-than-ideal eating habits are worth addressing, but he's left fumbling to pick up the conversation where it dropped hard, unsure how to carry on as though nothing happened and everything is fine.
He grabs a dry cut of sausage and gnaws on it for a while, not quite as ravenous as before.]
You should eat. [He urges, as if Ed hasn't been at all, dimly focused on a toothpick he's turning between his fingers.] There's nothing you'll find under a wrapper that is better than this, I promise you.