Kane’s perched on top of his van, Kidz Bop classics playing from inside the van, trousers off and in hand, sewing up a hole that was starting to grow. Who knew sitting down would be worse for making holes in his jeans opposed to constantly walking around? Either way, he’d worn a hole into them and he’s busy with a thread and needle, carefully stitching it up in the waning daylight.
His legs are out and he’s grateful it’s warm. If he were younger or the world circumstances different, he’d be shy about sitting in just his boxers but his self-consciousness had died a while ago. The worst of his scars are out of sight, anyhow, nothing but a few long scratches and bullet wounds from good old dad. It was the arms ( and face ) that took the brunt of them.
Vaguely he’s aware of someone hovering nearby, Kane sees enough in his peripheral to know they’ve stopped because of him or his terrible taste in tunes. “Get your free looks in now,” he deadpans out, not looking away from his sewing, “Stick around too long and I’ll have to start charging.”