( she makes a fine queen. you've done well for yourself, sir. very well indeed.
ah, but hasn't he figured out that it's pointless to find himself baffled by anything that henry insists upon? there is never a rhyme to his reason, and if there is, it's a faint one, etched in the dregs of logic that swirl around in the bottom of an empty teacup. gansey would be far better off just going along with the flow of things than questioning what fuels the insistence, and if he can't deny that breakfast is wonderful at any time of the day, why waste the cognitive power in the first place?
spend it on something else. like watching the road.
henry can't stop the smile from sliding across the line of his mouth at the exclamaton of excelsior, and he turns that broad expression on the driver of the pig without any thought of pretense, a hand reaching over to clap against a shoulder currently dressed in an eye-searing shade of orange, a sharp bark of laughter that can only mean that he's utterly lost in the whole of this sensation, this moment, slipping free of the back of his throat. ) Atta boy. Onward and upward, take no prisoners, unless they deny me my sustenance.
( stop. just. no.
his hands flop back into his lap, though he perks up just a bit once they hit the ramp, eyes peeled for the signs that depict food. ) A hole in the wall, I say. On a broken backroad. Might not even be a road – maybe it's gravel.
no subject
ah, but hasn't he figured out that it's pointless to find himself baffled by anything that henry insists upon? there is never a rhyme to his reason, and if there is, it's a faint one, etched in the dregs of logic that swirl around in the bottom of an empty teacup. gansey would be far better off just going along with the flow of things than questioning what fuels the insistence, and if he can't deny that breakfast is wonderful at any time of the day, why waste the cognitive power in the first place?
spend it on something else. like watching the road.
henry can't stop the smile from sliding across the line of his mouth at the exclamaton of excelsior, and he turns that broad expression on the driver of the pig without any thought of pretense, a hand reaching over to clap against a shoulder currently dressed in an eye-searing shade of orange, a sharp bark of laughter that can only mean that he's utterly lost in the whole of this sensation, this moment, slipping free of the back of his throat. ) Atta boy. Onward and upward, take no prisoners, unless they deny me my sustenance.
( stop. just. no.
his hands flop back into his lap, though he perks up just a bit once they hit the ramp, eyes peeled for the signs that depict food. ) A hole in the wall, I say. On a broken backroad. Might not even be a road – maybe it's gravel.