I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
"An' what a pity I got here early," he shot back at her, tilting his head and kicking at the boot of the dead man, as if to remind her what his arrival had prevented (and culminated in, but there we go). He didn't watch as the crystal shattered to the ground, or as she hurled the rest of the useless material, and he hastily raised a mental block against the flurry of emotion battering his telepathy. Neither of them needed that right now. Silently, he held out a hand for her to go first, in a gross parody of a gentleman's manners - the sooner they got out of the Fingers, the better.
"You know what my fuckin' job is, right?" he said, voice low and still irritated. "What I've done for a livin', for over a decade? What the fuck made you decide to strike out on your own? What were you tryin' to do, escape? Get a kick out of it?"
"You know what my fuckin' job is, right?" he said, voice low and still irritated. "What I've done for a livin', for over a decade? What the fuck made you decide to strike out on your own? What were you tryin' to do, escape? Get a kick out of it?"
