[He says, as if they weren't fucking poorer than shit. He had enough money to handle things well enough, he supposes. They kept the power on, they... had food. It worked.] Not always junk food, no.
[Just mainly.
He chuckles at Blue's response, breaking that scowling he's seemed so intent on having during this whole exchange. Anyone who talks shit on Steven earns automatic favor from Guzma.]
Never said you were afraid, I just know how that pompous ass can be. Best in the smallest doses imaginable, huh? But that's a good point, I'm sure Jill wouldn't mind his help if you were wantin' to make a deal with her to use the garden.
[The shift in Blue catches Guzma, and he finds himself looking down at his nearly empty bowl. His own expression getting a little more serious, a little bit of worry on it.]
He's fine. He's been eating. Didn't for a while, Jill had to hassle him good.
[He sighs, bringing his arm up to rub at his forehead with his hand, eyes closed as his face twists into something a bit more conflicted; before he runs it back through his messy white hair, lowering his head with an aggravated sigh.
It's his left arm he's using, the one that was stabbed through. There's no dressings on it, since it's been healed, but there's the telling scar of the deed, fresh and pink. It's hardly a clean looking pair of marks. It could have been, but in that moment of panic, Guzma had ripped his arm away from the blade, making for an ugly reminder of that night.]
no subject
[He says, as if they weren't fucking poorer than shit. He had enough money to handle things well enough, he supposes. They kept the power on, they... had food. It worked.] Not always junk food, no.
[Just mainly.
He chuckles at Blue's response, breaking that scowling he's seemed so intent on having during this whole exchange. Anyone who talks shit on Steven earns automatic favor from Guzma.]
Never said you were afraid, I just know how that pompous ass can be. Best in the smallest doses imaginable, huh? But that's a good point, I'm sure Jill wouldn't mind his help if you were wantin' to make a deal with her to use the garden.
[The shift in Blue catches Guzma, and he finds himself looking down at his nearly empty bowl. His own expression getting a little more serious, a little bit of worry on it.]
He's fine. He's been eating. Didn't for a while, Jill had to hassle him good.
[He sighs, bringing his arm up to rub at his forehead with his hand, eyes closed as his face twists into something a bit more conflicted; before he runs it back through his messy white hair, lowering his head with an aggravated sigh.
It's his left arm he's using, the one that was stabbed through. There's no dressings on it, since it's been healed, but there's the telling scar of the deed, fresh and pink. It's hardly a clean looking pair of marks. It could have been, but in that moment of panic, Guzma had ripped his arm away from the blade, making for an ugly reminder of that night.]