maverick-braeden:
“Not if they pay you overtime for it,” he pointed out, shrugging his shoulders. It wasn’t like Maverick had anything else to do but work. He was busy at times, but others? He didn’t like being alone. He wasn’t that kind of person; hence his needy nature and his ability to show up early to his appointments. He no longer had the worries he’d originally had coming to Amos; the man managed not to look at him like he was the plague. At least, not that Maverick could tell.
He followed Amos’ gaze to his arms, already feeling slightly sick to his stomach just looking at them. It was a reaction ingrained in him by someone else, and Maverick had yet to rid himself of the habit, “Yeah…” he whispered, clearing his throat before he nodded, “Yes,” he corrected himself, pulling his arm that was released back towards his chest.
He sat down in the chair, holding his arm out and resting it on the side table, “Just nothing weird. Like your name or something,” he joked, closing his eyes. “I met your…ex? I don’t know what she was. But I joked about kissing you after her drunk ass tried to drive and hit my car, and she had the audacity to be offended.”
“Sounds like you’re just in desperate need of a distraction,” he said, wondering if his evaluation would yield a cold shoulder, or a glare. Amos didn’t use probing questions like that on most people, and instead preferred to keep his head down and work when he had a patron in his chair. But his familiar with Maverick fostered a sort of back-and-forth he couldn’t get anywhere else. His connections in Montreal were stiflingly limited, and despite himself, he took advantage of the younger man’s visits to feel normal. Like this was home.
Amos pulled back as well when Maverick did, noticing the recoil. It was hard to reveal scars to someone; he knew the constant itch to hide them. Even though he never faced his own insecurities very often (in fact, he owned them most of the time), there were dark moments when the itch got so bad, he’d tried to claw it out of his skin ...
“Well, shit. You’re no fun, you know that?” he grumbled, standing and beginning to gather the supplies he’d need. He’d just put together a new gun, but after a moment’s thought, he decided against using it in favour of his favourite gun. When he’d first started, it was the only one he’d use. Now, he kept it for special occasions, special patrons. He considered it an extension of his arm. He was grabbing ink from beneath the counter when Maverick’s words caught him by the scruff of the neck. “Reagan?” he asked, slowly rising with a small container of black ink - like a plastic thimble. “That was you she hit on New Year’s? Shit.” Amos ran a great paw down the length of his face and dropped his head back on his shoulders. “That woman.”