Re: Diner: Seven & Marta
Seven wasn't sure how she looked. She was skinny, which - yeah, okay, he'd noticed that as soon as she stepped into the arch of the diner's doorway. He wasn't completely caught off-guard by that. She'd been too skinny the last time he'd seen her, right? Standing there in the middle of the street like a roadrunner caught in the Wile E Coyote's latest trap, like he was something dangerous. Like she was just waiting for the bottom of her world to fall out from under her at his behest.
Like she was waiting for him to hurt her.
So, okay. There were a bunch of things that Seven wasn't thinking about, or trying not to, in this moment: how she looked, bare bones and shadowed cheeks and eyes just a bit too sunk into her features. How she was strung tight like her tendons were razor wire, waiting to get all shredded at a snap of his fingers that he didn't want to come.
Seven didn't find her awkward, but he also knew she wasn't talking to him like he used to be, either. It wasn't about money. They had never been about money. Had they? Seven didn't think so. But how much weight could he put behind what he believed?
"I happen to have it on good authority that this place has the best french toast in a hundred mile radius," he offered, casually. Deliberate. Like he'd be fine either way. "But I don't know if I can do it justice on my own. Wanna split an order with me?"