c. spoilt for choice [Most things have been creeping into feeling like they might be normal. Horatio isn't wearing the mud-smeared, blood-stained uniform he'd arrived in. He isn't sleeping squeezed into a crevice between rocks or holding his breath at every little noise. He's wearing comfortable work clothes that smell like happy dirt. He's got a bed, and a roof, and a task he's actually well-equipped to handle when he wakes up in the morning. By and large, the understanding that this is his new reality is properly settling in.
But this much food in one place?
It makes him feel small and just a bit lost. It keeps his lips pressed together as he wanders slowly, trying to process the wonderful attack on his senses that the food stalls are pouring out into the world. Apparently having his senses bombarded is enough to dampen his natural stoic inclination, because he actually lets himself drift into other people's personal space.]
--what's that?
d. choosing your battles [None of the games are familiar. Then again, Horatio supposes, the things he's most used to wouldn't scale well. No one wants to monitor four or five knucklebone players simultaneously having a turn, the way people lobbing balls or picking up rubber ducks could be watched.
Most of the flashing lights are overwhelming, but there's a bank of rather antiquated Skee-Ball machines he finds himself drawn to all the same. The motion isn't familiar, and the results are unpredictable, but it's something that earns an unabashed laugh before very long.
Having fun is... fun.]
f. let your colors burst [It isn't the cannon fire. It doesn't sound like the cannon fire. It doesn't look like the cannon fire.
But the celebration has worn Horatio out. His nerves, soothed by the past week, are still frayed enough at the edges to keep him glancing nervously up at the sky as he begins to wend his way home.
Which means, for the first time in ages, he's paying so little attention that he winds up walking smack into someone.]
no subject
[Most things have been creeping into feeling like they might be normal. Horatio isn't wearing the mud-smeared, blood-stained uniform he'd arrived in. He isn't sleeping squeezed into a crevice between rocks or holding his breath at every little noise. He's wearing comfortable work clothes that smell like happy dirt. He's got a bed, and a roof, and a task he's actually well-equipped to handle when he wakes up in the morning. By and large, the understanding that this is his new reality is properly settling in.
But this much food in one place?
It makes him feel small and just a bit lost. It keeps his lips pressed together as he wanders slowly, trying to process the wonderful attack on his senses that the food stalls are pouring out into the world. Apparently having his senses bombarded is enough to dampen his natural stoic inclination, because he actually lets himself drift into other people's personal space.]
--what's that?
d. choosing your battles
[None of the games are familiar. Then again, Horatio supposes, the things he's most used to wouldn't scale well. No one wants to monitor four or five knucklebone players simultaneously having a turn, the way people lobbing balls or picking up rubber ducks could be watched.
Most of the flashing lights are overwhelming, but there's a bank of rather antiquated Skee-Ball machines he finds himself drawn to all the same. The motion isn't familiar, and the results are unpredictable, but it's something that earns an unabashed laugh before very long.
Having fun is... fun.]
f. let your colors burst
[It isn't the cannon fire. It doesn't sound like the cannon fire. It doesn't look like the cannon fire.
But the celebration has worn Horatio out. His nerves, soothed by the past week, are still frayed enough at the edges to keep him glancing nervously up at the sky as he begins to wend his way home.
Which means, for the first time in ages, he's paying so little attention that he winds up walking smack into someone.]