07-24-2013, 11:53 AM
The young man on the counter is, at the moment, actually even more useless than Sera is. Sera brought groceries, and liquor, and is unpacking them. Hawksley is sitting in her way, looking through her stuff, picking things up and playing with them, reading bottle labels, and essentially getting in the way of everything. While he does, he looks over at Grace, brightening. "See! Our schedules refused to match up and we met again anyway." He says this as though he and Grace have been in a long debate about fate vs. will or happenstance vs. serendipity and he thinks he's winning. Then again, Hawksley seems like the type of person to think he's always winning, one way or another.
Oh, Hawksley. He lifts his eyed, eyes alighting on Sera again, curious. Then: grinning, broadly. "Good god, you're right," he says, reaching up to whip his sunglasses off the top of his head with the body language that would normally accompany a Great Scott!. "My eternal apologies," he tells her, hands gripping the edge of the counter and pushing him off with a smooth shove. His feet hop to the ground again, surprisingly light despite his height. The aviators stay on the counter, chrome-rimmed and amber-lensed. "That certainly sounds scientific."
Justin heads for the living room, saying they can talk now, and Hawksley starts to follow him, reaching to the hem of his shirt. His long arms cross and then unfurl as he pulls it up, lifts it over his head, and then slings it over his shoulder. Beneath that shirt he is golden in a way that makes it seem like he was born that way, would look like this even if the sun never touched his skin. He's wearing a golden wing on a chain, the emblem hanging above his solar plexus.
"As for what's up," he's heard saying to Justin, as he walks into the dining room and around that long, long table to the fireplace, but the rest of the sentence is lost.
[*drags Howl into a brief series of FPMs*]
Oh, Hawksley. He lifts his eyed, eyes alighting on Sera again, curious. Then: grinning, broadly. "Good god, you're right," he says, reaching up to whip his sunglasses off the top of his head with the body language that would normally accompany a Great Scott!. "My eternal apologies," he tells her, hands gripping the edge of the counter and pushing him off with a smooth shove. His feet hop to the ground again, surprisingly light despite his height. The aviators stay on the counter, chrome-rimmed and amber-lensed. "That certainly sounds scientific."
Justin heads for the living room, saying they can talk now, and Hawksley starts to follow him, reaching to the hem of his shirt. His long arms cross and then unfurl as he pulls it up, lifts it over his head, and then slings it over his shoulder. Beneath that shirt he is golden in a way that makes it seem like he was born that way, would look like this even if the sun never touched his skin. He's wearing a golden wing on a chain, the emblem hanging above his solar plexus.
"As for what's up," he's heard saying to Justin, as he walks into the dining room and around that long, long table to the fireplace, but the rest of the sentence is lost.
[*drags Howl into a brief series of FPMs*]
my whole life is thunder.