there was something about the darkness that either calmed him or set him on edge, and it depended on the night. currently, he was a victim of his own circumstance, sneaking out into the workshop, head tipped down as he concentrated on two things. first, it was the gun in his hand, the pieces dissected carefully, one by one. it was muscle memory mostly, but there was something else there, perhaps a care that was hard to place. the second, the music playing in the background was soothing jazz, the old greats, humming along with the twang in the bass line, barely noticing that the doorway was now occupied. bright eyes were lifted from the task at hand, the distraction he’d crafted out of weaponry, subtle laugh following too closely behind. “to what do i owe the pleasure?” the question was rhetorical, maybe, or maybe it was amusement, it was purposely positioned to be hard to read. @ridereblogs

















