[Big bad Punisher with a hefty kill count under his belt is a polite guy. A decent guy, turns out. Interesting. Clint could laugh if he didn't think he might re-drown sitting up doing so. He needs a dehumidifier installed in his chest, thanks. He lets the guy order, nods along absently, and just revels in the feeling of letting his muscles relax even as they drip everywhere.
He runs a hand back through his hair to paste it back some. For a bleary moment, he's back in the water, knelt with a weight of guilt in his chest, a glowing rock in his hand--
Don't even go there. There are floresent lights. There's the smell of greasy breakfast food and coffee. There's a squeaky, sticky seat under him. There's company.
He nods at said company. Or, down at his hand.] Bleeding.
no subject
He runs a hand back through his hair to paste it back some. For a bleary moment, he's back in the water, knelt with a weight of guilt in his chest, a glowing rock in his hand--
Don't even go there. There are floresent lights. There's the smell of greasy breakfast food and coffee. There's a squeaky, sticky seat under him. There's company.
He nods at said company. Or, down at his hand.] Bleeding.