[She's quietly tuning the instrument by the time he speaks again, fingers thrumming the strings carefully, adjusting the pins as she goes. It's an almost absentminded practice, long familiar; she doesn't look up, even as she answers him.]
Won't let me run patrols. [A shrug. Her arms and shoulders are bare except for the slim straps of the shirt she's wearing, white against the black stitching run through the healing bite circling one shoulder.] Been climbing the fucking walls.
no subject
Won't let me run patrols. [A shrug. Her arms and shoulders are bare except for the slim straps of the shirt she's wearing, white against the black stitching run through the healing bite circling one shoulder.] Been climbing the fucking walls.