[ In the time it takes to handle the last of the paperwork, and let Korra out, Hei has become intimately acquainted with the black vinyl chairs, the white floor tile, the buzzing fluorescent lights, the bitter coffee dispensed by a gurgling machine into thin paper cups, and a few dogeared magazines on the table. There's a mirrored door directly across him; he avoids looking at his own reflection -- the red-rimmed eyes with shadows extending halfway down his nose, and cheeks gray with stubble. His whole body is leaden from exhaustion, and throbbing with old wounds as he slumps forward, elbows on knees. ]
[ But his gaze stays fixed on the door ahead. ]
[ When Korra finally steps through, he offers no reaction. But inside, a weird pity for her disheveled appearance wells up, squelching like slime around a boot. He wants to match her anger; being angry is easier. Rising to his feet, he half-expects that someone will collar him -- there's so much accusation in that simple You. In fact, he almost wishes, as he steps over to her, hands clenched in pockets, shoulders high, that someone would. ]
Come on. [ His voice is uncharacteristically small. Without glancing at her, he begins heading for the exit. ]
no subject
[ But his gaze stays fixed on the door ahead. ]
[ When Korra finally steps through, he offers no reaction. But inside, a weird pity for her disheveled appearance wells up, squelching like slime around a boot. He wants to match her anger; being angry is easier. Rising to his feet, he half-expects that someone will collar him -- there's so much accusation in that simple You. In fact, he almost wishes, as he steps over to her, hands clenched in pockets, shoulders high, that someone would. ]
Come on. [ His voice is uncharacteristically small. Without glancing at her, he begins heading for the exit. ]