@s1euth * . let me write you a starter.
it’s june in america and he hates going outside. the air boils and the breeze boils and the trees shake off their clumps of pollen. he leans against the morgue’s back door, and the metal burning through his shirt feels like it’s boiling, too. klaus squints up at the sky, cigarette held loosely between his lips. smoke peels off the end of it and becomes the only cloud for miles around. nancy’s saying something, but she’s fighting for his attention against a sparrow shrieking a song from some distant roof. he exhales sharply and mumbles past the filter; the cigarette glows orange in protest. ' you’re breakin’ my heart, nance. whaddyou mean this isn’t a social call? '
she’s trying to convince him of the impossible, so emphatically and with such determination in her eyes that he just about thinks she's right. it’s her reasoning that’s wrong ––– not her motivation. klaus looks back down at her, shrugging loosely. in the pocket of his lab coat, he fidgets with the flint wheel of a purple lighter. ( it’s june in america, nancy drew. what does the world look like to you? ) ' can’t tell you anything, no matter what. ––––– eh, completely unrelated: you happen to have five bucks on you? '
