Maine wasn't someone that most people would smile over, unless it was by one of the other Freelancers who actually knew him. Before the sarcophagus retrieval, it was his size that intimated most: large, strong, practically built out of stone and weighing about as much. Now, the fresh, ugly pink scars around the front of his throat only added to the visage, the skin shining, new, raw.
The silence didn't help, either.
But Wash wasn't afraid of him. Wash...actually smiled when he saw him, Wash understood him when he said nothing at all, and on the rare occasion that he did. Or, well, used to. He couldn't anymore, but he growled, he hissed, and they were sounds that conveyed some things...when he felt like it. Which was rare. Mostly when he was annoyed.
Setting the knife down, he swept the desk chiseled wooden chips away and glanced up. Wash looked like shit, and Maine made a face that said as much. When was the last time he slept? Recon wasn't his own typical missions; he was too big, too (strangely) loud to be sent out on those. He was more the muscle, which is why he tended to come home bloody rather than sleep-deprived. Muscle jobs were shorter.
Intelligence gathering could take days and were boring as hell.
He climbed to his feet, shrugging a little under his dark tanktop. How was he feeling? He felt like someone shot him in the throat. It burned. Sometimes he still coughed shit up, phlegm and blood and it looked disgusting and tasted worse. It had wrecked three of his teeth, and he had gotten implants, perfect, seamless, and chewing didn't pain him as much anymore. He hurt, but mostly he was mad at himself for getting fucking caught like that. He was better than that.
Raising a hand, he curled his fingers, calling him over, before turning them in a circle. Force of habit, but he wanted to look at Wash, make sure he wasn't hurt, contusions or cuts or anything either of them might not know about.
Whoops?
The silence didn't help, either.
But Wash wasn't afraid of him. Wash...actually smiled when he saw him, Wash understood him when he said nothing at all, and on the rare occasion that he did. Or, well, used to. He couldn't anymore, but he growled, he hissed, and they were sounds that conveyed some things...when he felt like it. Which was rare. Mostly when he was annoyed.
Setting the knife down, he swept the desk chiseled wooden chips away and glanced up. Wash looked like shit, and Maine made a face that said as much. When was the last time he slept? Recon wasn't his own typical missions; he was too big, too (strangely) loud to be sent out on those. He was more the muscle, which is why he tended to come home bloody rather than sleep-deprived. Muscle jobs were shorter.
Intelligence gathering could take days and were boring as hell.
He climbed to his feet, shrugging a little under his dark tanktop. How was he feeling? He felt like someone shot him in the throat. It burned. Sometimes he still coughed shit up, phlegm and blood and it looked disgusting and tasted worse. It had wrecked three of his teeth, and he had gotten implants, perfect, seamless, and chewing didn't pain him as much anymore. He hurt, but mostly he was mad at himself for getting fucking caught like that. He was better than that.
Raising a hand, he curled his fingers, calling him over, before turning them in a circle. Force of habit, but he wanted to look at Wash, make sure he wasn't hurt, contusions or cuts or anything either of them might not know about.