[He kind of expects an answer to be a long time coming. But when she doesn't answer his question at all, he looks up at her, finally.
His blue eyes are bloodshot and wet from tears, and the expression he gives her is...shocked. That anyone could know what he's done, and still be gentle to him, still look at him, even.
Wordlessly, meekly, he stands from the chair and goes to her desk, and puts his left hand in hers.
Up close, the bandage that Farrah applied in the trial is twisted, crusted together with dried blood, and the cloth and the undamaged parts of his hand are dirty from his rotten work in the garden, earth beneath his fingernails and green grass stains on the bandage.
The cut beneath peeks out, raw and hot and open. Technically, it probably needs stitches.]
no subject
His blue eyes are bloodshot and wet from tears, and the expression he gives her is...shocked. That anyone could know what he's done, and still be gentle to him, still look at him, even.
Wordlessly, meekly, he stands from the chair and goes to her desk, and puts his left hand in hers.
Up close, the bandage that Farrah applied in the trial is twisted, crusted together with dried blood, and the cloth and the undamaged parts of his hand are dirty from his rotten work in the garden, earth beneath his fingernails and green grass stains on the bandage.
The cut beneath peeks out, raw and hot and open. Technically, it probably needs stitches.]
...Why are you helping me?