“The thing about hunches” — Hank squeezes the counter before pushing himself forward — “is they’re usually bullshit.”
He doesn’t mention how his hunches are often right. But that’s his job, anyway — to be able to read people — and he’d rather not unleash his ever-present contrarian to argue semantics. Not now.
“And who knows? Maybe I’m not trustworthy. Maybe nobody here is, because power corrupts. Money and sex and winning. All these flashing lights and little ding-ding sounds telling us how we’ve won — but what are we winning, really?”
Hank doesn’t quite close the distance between them, but he’s bridging the gap. Mirrors looming around them, tall and glaring. Soon to reflect all of Hank’s insecurities right back at him.
“I’m not the good guy here.” Pausing to tuck his hands in his pants pockets. Rolling back on his heels. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter.”
A sad smile, then: “Could be worse, yeah? Could’ve ended up with someone worse than this sad old fuck.
“And I’m not gonna take your mask off, so you don’t gotta worry about all that.”
It’s not at all the same, but usually Hank keeps his shirt on during sex. Lights off. So he gets wanting to hide parts of himself — feeling like he needs to, even. Protecting himself and others. Not that anyone would die if they looked him in the eye, but hell if it doesn’t feel that way sometimes.
“So I guess the question now is: you want the clamps with the chain, or the pretty ones — all blue like my eyes?”
no subject
“The thing about hunches” — Hank squeezes the counter before pushing himself forward — “is they’re usually bullshit.”
He doesn’t mention how his hunches are often right. But that’s his job, anyway — to be able to read people — and he’d rather not unleash his ever-present contrarian to argue semantics. Not now.
“And who knows? Maybe I’m not trustworthy. Maybe nobody here is, because power corrupts. Money and sex and winning. All these flashing lights and little ding-ding sounds telling us how we’ve won — but what are we winning, really?”
Hank doesn’t quite close the distance between them, but he’s bridging the gap. Mirrors looming around them, tall and glaring. Soon to reflect all of Hank’s insecurities right back at him.
“I’m not the good guy here.” Pausing to tuck his hands in his pants pockets. Rolling back on his heels. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter.”
A sad smile, then: “Could be worse, yeah? Could’ve ended up with someone worse than this sad old fuck.
“And I’m not gonna take your mask off, so you don’t gotta worry about all that.”
It’s not at all the same, but usually Hank keeps his shirt on during sex. Lights off. So he gets wanting to hide parts of himself — feeling like he needs to, even. Protecting himself and others. Not that anyone would die if they looked him in the eye, but hell if it doesn’t feel that way sometimes.
“So I guess the question now is: you want the clamps with the chain, or the pretty ones — all blue like my eyes?”