[You know the answer to that, bud. He spreads his hands out in front of him in a halfhearted jazz-hands-y kind of way.]
Broken.
[Well, just the one. Part of the one. The last two fingers on his right hand are bruised and stiff, visibly colorful and clearly swollen, along with the knuckles. He’s been making a point not to move them, but he hasn't exactly gotten around to doing much about them. Probably should—it’s already been plenty annoying. (Less the pain—it’s not like the rest of him isn’t usually pretty banged up at any given time. There’s a baseline level of battered you get used to if you don’t have the benefit of invulnerability. But it does make fine motor control a lot less convenient.)
Getting them out of the range of the windows, he ducks deeper into the apartment. Hooks the leg of a chair out with a toe to drag it out from under the kitchen table so he can sprawl down into it and fix the steaming styrofoam with a suspicious glower when Prime sets it down. Eventually, he reaches to pry off the lid with his good hand. It takes about ten seconds and a whiff of bergamot before he seems to come to some kind of decision about it and take the first sip. (Drugging him or poisoning him or whatever would be a pretty convoluted angle of attack, at this point, so it’s pretty unlikely. Still. If he dies, he dies.)
He sets the cut down to prop himself up with a fist against his cheekbone, looking Prime—Clark—narrowly. Leading—]
no subject
Broken.
[Well, just the one. Part of the one. The last two fingers on his right hand are bruised and stiff, visibly colorful and clearly swollen, along with the knuckles. He’s been making a point not to move them, but he hasn't exactly gotten around to doing much about them. Probably should—it’s already been plenty annoying. (Less the pain—it’s not like the rest of him isn’t usually pretty banged up at any given time. There’s a baseline level of battered you get used to if you don’t have the benefit of invulnerability. But it does make fine motor control a lot less convenient.)
Getting them out of the range of the windows, he ducks deeper into the apartment. Hooks the leg of a chair out with a toe to drag it out from under the kitchen table so he can sprawl down into it and fix the steaming styrofoam with a suspicious glower when Prime sets it down. Eventually, he reaches to pry off the lid with his good hand. It takes about ten seconds and a whiff of bergamot before he seems to come to some kind of decision about it and take the first sip. (Drugging him or poisoning him or whatever would be a pretty convoluted angle of attack, at this point, so it’s pretty unlikely. Still. If he dies, he dies.)
He sets the cut down to prop himself up with a fist against his cheekbone, looking Prime—Clark—narrowly. Leading—]
What, not so fussed about the secret ID?