[ He finishes packing sooner rather than later. (He doesn't have much. Never has.) The bed creaks as he perches on the edge of the mattress, head bowing as he runs a hand back through his hair, still mussed by sleep.
Barry Weiss doesn't quite seem like himself when he calms down. (It's because he almost never does. Most of the time, he's too busy vaulting himself around with a sort of energy that would break bones if he ever hit a wall.) Somehow, it takes years off of him rather than put them on. The focus smooths out the lines that run across his face, turns manic energy in a sharp concentration, strips away the mask — paperthin to begin with — and leaves a pallid kind of fear. Not true fear — a man who has nothing doesn't feel fear — but a vague insecurity, one that doesn't have a true source but which flows through the blood nevertheless.
Still, he sits on the edge of the bed and he waits. Because he can't do anything about the blood or the teeth, can't do anything but do as she's told him.
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Barry Weiss doesn't quite seem like himself when he calms down. (It's because he almost never does. Most of the time, he's too busy vaulting himself around with a sort of energy that would break bones if he ever hit a wall.) Somehow, it takes years off of him rather than put them on. The focus smooths out the lines that run across his face, turns manic energy in a sharp concentration, strips away the mask — paperthin to begin with — and leaves a pallid kind of fear. Not true fear — a man who has nothing doesn't feel fear — but a vague insecurity, one that doesn't have a true source but which flows through the blood nevertheless.
Still, he sits on the edge of the bed and he waits. Because he can't do anything about the blood or the teeth, can't do anything but do as she's told him.
(Fucking useful, he is.) ]