He tosses the towel aside, feeling selfish for a moment, thinking if maybe he can talk his way out of this one. It's easy enough to read him, even if he doesn't seem particularly chatty. The way his grip tightens on the edge of the counter, the way that smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when he turns his head away and crosses his ankles, trying to look casual.
"I'm not a... big fan of small, dark spaces." That's what claustrophobia means. He knows. He just doesn't- want to come off as vulnerable, or weak, whether it's because he adheres to some albeit dated gendered notions about what's acceptable for grown ass men to have phobias about or because he doesn't want anyone using it to pick him apart.
"Towards the end of my mother's life, we weren't allowed to go see her. I was only... this tall. I didn't know what got her, how contagious tuberculosis was." He hasn't even told Raylan this, and it probably shows. He straightens up a bit, lowers his weight against the edge of the sink again, uncrosses his ankles, seems to find the floor particularly interesting, scratches under his bottom lip, and when he catches himself doing that he's tapping his ringed finger against the edge of the counter. If he had his hat he probably wouldn't be able to stop touching it. He's uncomfortable talking. It's foreign. He's not like Malcolm, who makes it look easy.
"Used to crawl under the house. Heard her worries, listened to her prayers while she was- coughing her insides out all over her sheets. No one else was listening, after all. There sure as shit isn't a merciful God upstairs, downstairs or sideways. And then she died. Alone. Shunned. Outta sight, outta mind." He swallows the lump in his throat. Ancient history, right? Doesn't bother him, does it? He's only telling Malcolm, because he said, he's just pretending. And because Malcolm can't hide these things the way he does.
"Anyway. There was a woman. Knew I wouldn't be able to stand it. Put me in the bottom of a well, covered it up, a hundred and thirty years ago." So, you know, yeah. The snow doesn't really bother him. Neither does the strange voices he had heard in the forest or in the Boarding House a couple weeks ago. And he thinks he can handle a bit of fog.
"Could we talk about sommin' else, Malcolm? I 'on't wanna start drinking at five in the morning."
no subject
"I'm not a... big fan of small, dark spaces." That's what claustrophobia means. He knows. He just doesn't- want to come off as vulnerable, or weak, whether it's because he adheres to some albeit dated gendered notions about what's acceptable for grown ass men to have phobias about or because he doesn't want anyone using it to pick him apart.
"Towards the end of my mother's life, we weren't allowed to go see her. I was only... this tall. I didn't know what got her, how contagious tuberculosis was." He hasn't even told Raylan this, and it probably shows. He straightens up a bit, lowers his weight against the edge of the sink again, uncrosses his ankles, seems to find the floor particularly interesting, scratches under his bottom lip, and when he catches himself doing that he's tapping his ringed finger against the edge of the counter. If he had his hat he probably wouldn't be able to stop touching it. He's uncomfortable talking. It's foreign. He's not like Malcolm, who makes it look easy.
"Used to crawl under the house. Heard her worries, listened to her prayers while she was- coughing her insides out all over her sheets. No one else was listening, after all. There sure as shit isn't a merciful God upstairs, downstairs or sideways. And then she died. Alone. Shunned. Outta sight, outta mind." He swallows the lump in his throat. Ancient history, right? Doesn't bother him, does it? He's only telling Malcolm, because he said, he's just pretending. And because Malcolm can't hide these things the way he does.
"Anyway. There was a woman. Knew I wouldn't be able to stand it. Put me in the bottom of a well, covered it up, a hundred and thirty years ago." So, you know, yeah. The snow doesn't really bother him. Neither does the strange voices he had heard in the forest or in the Boarding House a couple weeks ago. And he thinks he can handle a bit of fog.
"Could we talk about sommin' else, Malcolm? I 'on't wanna start drinking at five in the morning."