quicklog: matt/destiny
[The door on the first floor was open, but Matt knocked anyway before opening. He tended to take real care in the personal spaces of others. He could relate to the specialness of those places, and the care that was needed. He was a little more protective of his own room than a wolf was of its territory. He hadn't owned anything, had a space that could truly be considered 'private,' for the better half of the last century. Having reclaimed that, he protected it like someone would destroy it at the first opportunity.
Considering the history that generated such idiosyncracies, the sight of Russian tea cookies on the counter was enough to stop him dead. It was a good thing Destiny wasn't in the kitchen to see him pick up the index card, read it, and set it back down exactly where it was before. It was't about the cookies, of course - it was about being known, and paranoia.
Cookies assessed, he made sure his bootstep was loud in the kitchen before approaching the open bedroom door. The out-of-key singing and scent of warm laundry were just about enough to diffuse the tension in his shoulders. He wore a worn blue henley and a glove over his left hand. His arm moved fluidly enough, but the rigid bulk of it marked it too obviously as a prosthetic for it to be anything else. His long hair was tied neatly back. His boots and his carriage marked him out as ex-military well before he opened his mouth, but even so, there was something more present behind the eyes now than there had been even last year, when they met.
From behind his back, he produced a small stuffed dinosaur. It still had the tag attached.] Heard someone liked these.