He lets his lips curl up on one side, into a grin that really is more a smirk. "I told you I'd give that list a try," and he has been, mentally. Getting used to a few of the swear words in his mind, in text, never really saying them out loud because to him they still sound like silly made up words. Nonsensical sounds. He hasn't heard more than a few of them while growing up. When Tony forgot himself and let them slip, or when JOCASTA was reading them out some texts that had a few of them in the lines. But even then he hadn't really thought that much of it. Just thought of it as something from the world they weren't a part of any more.
But he's taking the drink she's offering him, knowing there's a point to it, but knowing quite what that point is. Instead, he's just taking a breath and drinking it. Half of it, until he coughs and his eyes tear up again, until he's screwing up his nose against the sting shooting down his throat after the alcohol. It's better, with the juice, but it's still... weird.
"... So they're to remind yourself of your friends," he likes that. A lot, actually. Enough that it makes him smile warmly, looking down at the messy skin, knowing it'd heal up, eventually, that the ink would be left. He knew how tattoos worked, in theory, and sure it was weird looking at an unfinished product, but--
Libby says Strela, and the smile dies on his face. His eyes darken, and he glances at Libby's eyes for just a second before glancing away, rolling his jaw and tugging uselessly at the edge of his uniform top, putting his drink down and walking the few steps over to his shield, needing it in his hands for a moment, needing to grip the leather straps and just turn the metal around in his hands before walking over, setting it down closer to the table his friend had been on top of. Leaning it so it's just brushing against his pants. Closer. Safer. Instantly, he feels more relaxed. "You were on Strela too. Right," he'd been with her on the trip over, she'd woken him up. He remembers that. But then he'd lost sight of her, had gone off on his own...
He doesn't want to remember what had happened after that.
no subject
But he's taking the drink she's offering him, knowing there's a point to it, but knowing quite what that point is. Instead, he's just taking a breath and drinking it. Half of it, until he coughs and his eyes tear up again, until he's screwing up his nose against the sting shooting down his throat after the alcohol. It's better, with the juice, but it's still... weird.
"... So they're to remind yourself of your friends," he likes that. A lot, actually. Enough that it makes him smile warmly, looking down at the messy skin, knowing it'd heal up, eventually, that the ink would be left. He knew how tattoos worked, in theory, and sure it was weird looking at an unfinished product, but--
Libby says Strela, and the smile dies on his face. His eyes darken, and he glances at Libby's eyes for just a second before glancing away, rolling his jaw and tugging uselessly at the edge of his uniform top, putting his drink down and walking the few steps over to his shield, needing it in his hands for a moment, needing to grip the leather straps and just turn the metal around in his hands before walking over, setting it down closer to the table his friend had been on top of. Leaning it so it's just brushing against his pants. Closer. Safer. Instantly, he feels more relaxed. "You were on Strela too. Right," he'd been with her on the trip over, she'd woken him up. He remembers that. But then he'd lost sight of her, had gone off on his own...
He doesn't want to remember what had happened after that.