“Willow’s friend.” He’s drunk enough to be blunt, straight-to-the-point. “With the brother.”
He hasn’t been hearing particularly glowing praise recently, but he’s holding out hope that everyone will calm down and come around. It’s early enough that bad reactions are to be expected. Unwarranted, maybe, in his opinion, but expected. Things have been complicated, to put it nicely—batshit insane, to put it less nicely.
“I’ve seen pictures. Of you. On her phone. And Twitter,” he goes on, leaning against the bar. He thinks of the last photo he saw and his eyes naturally fall somewhere disrespectful; he takes just a split-second too long to course correct. He smiles, quickly playing it off. “I heard you two got in a fight. I think—I think you two should kiss’n make up. If you haven’t already. I can’t keep up. But you should, y’know, if y’haven’t.”
A pause. He appears to realize something.
“I’m Hawk, by the way. The one who—who Stockholm Syndrome’d her.”
@recovened
