There were times when he wondered how much of his weight was string. Especially now, since fixing himself up was no longer a sign of an emergency as it was a sign that he wasn't falling behind on his bit of the rent. He scratched his head and sat up, looking down at himself. There was a little bit of light coming in from under the curtain (he reminded himself to fix that when he had the chance), and he gave the long scar down his torso a small frown. There was still a bit of blue in it, the colour of the thread he was using.
Thank heaven for small favours. He sat for a moment in silence, trying to gauge whether or not his spleen was in the right place. They always went for the spleen, for some reason. At least, the first-timers did. Maybe they thought it was novel. Or amusing.
His limbs felt stiff and unwieldy, everything felt intact he felt like it was all trying to support his body on insufficient resources, and there was a slightly animal twitch somewhere in the back of his mind. He'd have to go hunting after he finished with his client.
Thankfully, experience told him that most of his clients preferred him to be a little bit dead. It made him a bit more exotic, apparently.
He dressed and walked down the stairs to the kitchen, intent on maybe having some tea. Not that it would really do any good, but he wasn't old enough to have abandoned all the habits of his time alive. His mind barely registered his two flatmates, and didn't quite translate their conversation into actual words until he'd broken a few matches to get the stove to light and put the kettle on. He chewed over what they were saying in his head before turning around and asking, "Wait a sec - who died?"