[ A dingy bar and a couple of dubious glasses of alcohol seems to be the cure to the cold and their little public ordeal earlier. Unlike Richie, she isn't immediately downing her booze – but she's also not the one preparing to spill their guts across the table. Her thumb runs along the condensation on the side of her glass, watching the human's face with intensity, focus; her attention is given solely to Richie, aside from the occasional assessment of their surroundings from her periphery.
(She can't help it – always watching her immediate space, checking exits, tracking movement.)
But she doesn't dare interrupt Richie as he starts in on his "funny story."
Boys. Kids. The year means nothing to her, but their age – she can understand that. Young, is what she gathers.
But that tragedy, the gruesomeness of it gives Gamora pause. Her finger stills on the side of her glass, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
no subject
(She can't help it – always watching her immediate space, checking exits, tracking movement.)
But she doesn't dare interrupt Richie as he starts in on his "funny story."
Boys. Kids. The year means nothing to her, but their age – she can understand that. Young, is what she gathers.
But that tragedy, the gruesomeness of it gives Gamora pause. Her finger stills on the side of her glass, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
(Not suspicion, but a wary curiosity.) ]
No one ever found what was responsible?