Re: Log: Griffin & Mars
A smirk for his smile, a penny for his dime. Mars chewed at the toast's crusty rind, satisfied by the char and butter. She brushed the inevitability of crumbs away with a frail & pale hand. Her fingernails were painted Olympic gold, but the exposed crescent of bloodless cuticles proved that the paint must have been a month old. She sat up a bit more, making way for Griffin when he flopped over the bubblegum pink of her bedding, the quilt slumped around her waist. She wore a nightgown with the Victorian flare for the dramatic. Long sleeves and a high neck, it was as pale as she was. Her hair was molded fire atop her head in the form of a twisted bun. She winged the avian bones of her shoulder blades back against the headboard, deftly ignoring his instructions on protein. She'd pick at them eventually, but she didn't much like being told what to do. Griffin managed, and she listened, but she did it on her own time. The eggs would inevitably go cold before she looked at them again.
He'd begun to settle in well, and Mars didn't know why with only a couple of days to compare that he seemed happier here. Or, perhaps, like he could be happy here. Contemplating this, Mars directed her attention out the window where the pane of glass was a little foggy and frosted, but sunlight was casting the pretty, golden glow of dawn the town outside.
No.
She hadn't slept well. The dream was an echo behind her, a butterfly loose from the net and incapable of being caught again. No, not a dream, a nightmare. "We're going to need a gun," she told the window. Then, slyly, her eyes slid back to Griffin to see if he had an opinion on that.