pods. [ if there's one thing newt really hates about this bloody ship, it's the drop from the gravcouch to the floor. his bad leg's bad enough without taking a fall once a month, and he grunts when he hits the floor, naked and cold and in a lot of pain. it takes a long time for him to get up, sitting with his hand resting on his right ankle for a minute to try and compose himself.
once he's done that, muttering a swear to himself and trying to massage the ache out, newt gets back up and limps over to the showers. once he's cleaned himself off more or less and paused at his locker for long enough to have gotten dressed, he returns to the pods with a small stack of towels, stopping at people who look particularly miserable being covered in goop--must be greenies. ] Here. It'll do you a world of good, yeah?
lockers. [ said pause at the lockers comes just after the hot shower. newt opens his locker expecting to be met with the jumpsuit that he's been (unfortunately) living in for the past month, but instead of that, there's a folded mass of white cloth. newt's heart jumps up in his throat and he reaches into the locker to unfold what looks like a dirty henley style sweatshirt, looking entirely too big for the person who's holding it.
newt stares at it for a second, and the bitterness and the hurt and (alby's death, watching him get torn apart by grievers, if he'd just moved sooner, if he'd just grabbed him sooner, if he'd followed him)--
he takes a deep breath, eyes squinted shut, then folds the sweatshirt together in his arms for a minute. newt looks from left to right, to make sure no one's watching, then buries his nose in the cloth, inhaling and trying to pinch away the tears threatening to leak out of his eyes. it doesn't smell anything like it's former owner--just like the glade, a little like grass and dirt and metal and blood, and if he stays there just long enough, maybe a twist of something spicy and familiar.
composing himself, he pulls it up and over his head first, and stuffs his hands in his pockets, walking to the lift looking profoundly more slouched than usual. ]
newt | lockers, pods. ota!
[ if there's one thing newt really hates about this bloody ship, it's the drop from the gravcouch to the floor. his bad leg's bad enough without taking a fall once a month, and he grunts when he hits the floor, naked and cold and in a lot of pain. it takes a long time for him to get up, sitting with his hand resting on his right ankle for a minute to try and compose himself.
once he's done that, muttering a swear to himself and trying to massage the ache out, newt gets back up and limps over to the showers. once he's cleaned himself off more or less and paused at his locker for long enough to have gotten dressed, he returns to the pods with a small stack of towels, stopping at people who look particularly miserable being covered in goop--must be greenies. ] Here. It'll do you a world of good, yeah?
lockers.
[ said pause at the lockers comes just after the hot shower. newt opens his locker expecting to be met with the jumpsuit that he's been (unfortunately) living in for the past month, but instead of that, there's a folded mass of white cloth. newt's heart jumps up in his throat and he reaches into the locker to unfold what looks like a dirty henley style sweatshirt, looking entirely too big for the person who's holding it.
newt stares at it for a second, and the bitterness and the hurt and (alby's death, watching him get torn apart by grievers, if he'd just moved sooner, if he'd just grabbed him sooner, if he'd followed him)--
he takes a deep breath, eyes squinted shut, then folds the sweatshirt together in his arms for a minute. newt looks from left to right, to make sure no one's watching, then buries his nose in the cloth, inhaling and trying to pinch away the tears threatening to leak out of his eyes. it doesn't smell anything like it's former owner--just like the glade, a little like grass and dirt and metal and blood, and if he stays there just long enough, maybe a twist of something spicy and familiar.
composing himself, he pulls it up and over his head first, and stuffs his hands in his pockets, walking to the lift looking profoundly more slouched than usual. ]