[ The return bump to his shoulder earns a muffled huff in feigned indignity and a backward stumble of half a pace before Gen gives a soft laugh. It's barely more than a dry exhale, the sort of thing that would barely count as anything coming from most people. But maybe Amos can tell that there's something meaningful to that subtle noise -- he might be able to feel the faint, warm wave of relief that comes rolling through the connection forged by their shared Legacy. Genuine relief, soft at the edges with goodwill, completely free of any derision or defensive edge, at least in this one moment.
Accustomed as he is to the prickly nature of those who've been wounded in the past, maybe Amos can sense the gravity of that little flicker of light before Gen reflexively draws the curtains around it once more.
Like so many wounded people do, Gen holds his emotions close to his chest, bound by too many secrets to ever be honest. But at least Amos will have caught a glimpse of what he hides beneath that tough-guy front -- tiny fragments of a boyish attitude, the ability to still care for people, and a fervent desire to do right by them.
They're really not that different in that regard, are they. ]
Yeah, yeah, I know.
[ Gen takes one last drag at his cigarette before ditching the stub and snuffing it out under the sole of his boot. The smoke lingers bitter on his tongue as he exhales slowly.
Maybe there are people like that, who really do care about everyone. (Abel. He tries not to think about Abel.) But Amos is right that they're a dying breed, and he doesn't belong with types like that, anyway. He grew up surrounded by people who only care about their own, and he knows he's of the same breed. ]
... s'what I've always wanted to do, anyway. Just keep an eye out for the people who I care about. My old man was a piece of shit, but at least he taught me that much -- to be good to the people you work with, to treat'em like family. So.
[ He'd been idly kicking dirt over the cigarette stub to get it out of the way, but Gen looks up to meet Amos' eyes for just one moment. ]
For those people [ like you ] I'll always be rooting for'em. It'd be lame otherwise.
no subject
Accustomed as he is to the prickly nature of those who've been wounded in the past, maybe Amos can sense the gravity of that little flicker of light before Gen reflexively draws the curtains around it once more.
Like so many wounded people do, Gen holds his emotions close to his chest, bound by too many secrets to ever be honest. But at least Amos will have caught a glimpse of what he hides beneath that tough-guy front -- tiny fragments of a boyish attitude, the ability to still care for people, and a fervent desire to do right by them.
They're really not that different in that regard, are they. ]
Yeah, yeah, I know.
[ Gen takes one last drag at his cigarette before ditching the stub and snuffing it out under the sole of his boot. The smoke lingers bitter on his tongue as he exhales slowly.
Maybe there are people like that, who really do care about everyone. (Abel. He tries not to think about Abel.) But Amos is right that they're a dying breed, and he doesn't belong with types like that, anyway. He grew up surrounded by people who only care about their own, and he knows he's of the same breed. ]
... s'what I've always wanted to do, anyway. Just keep an eye out for the people who I care about. My old man was a piece of shit, but at least he taught me that much -- to be good to the people you work with, to treat'em like family. So.
[ He'd been idly kicking dirt over the cigarette stub to get it out of the way, but Gen looks up to meet Amos' eyes for just one moment. ]
For those people [ like you ] I'll always be rooting for'em. It'd be lame otherwise.