Will nods thoughtfully, still holding his hands apart in a vague approximation of the United States. At the woman's directions, he glances up, then to the right, then lowers his hands, suddenly awkward. "Way up there?" He remembers there's a lot of water, lots of lakes. Yellowknife, though, that sounds like something from a book. Or a campaign. Will debates saying this for about half a second, then elects to keep his mouth shut -- people don't like hearing him chatter, comes the mental reminder, the one that's been there since early childhood (the one that sounds like Lonnie Byers).
Still, he can't resist repeating, sitting up a little straighter in interest: "Snow castle? Like, a big one?" Judging by this reaction, Will would definitely be into the aforementioned Who's Who.
At Sam's repeated reassurances, Will finally scoops the rest of the change off of the chair, cradling it in his palms. He's got a brave face on, has had it since they left Indiana, but it flickers a little now. He hates this. He hates being miles away from home, poked and prodded and quizzed for hours, not knowing what the right thing to say or do is to make it all stop. He hates it and he's trying so hard to pretend he doesn't.
"It's not too bad," Will says finally, swaying a little in his seat, a nervous habit. He can't stay still when he lies, he fidgets, he shifts back and forth. With his hands curled around the money, the multiple puncture wounds from IV sites are easier to see, and he wonders wildly if Sam's been in those particular shoes. Instead he says, again: "It's not bad."
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Date: 2017-12-10 04:38 am (UTC)Still, he can't resist repeating, sitting up a little straighter in interest: "Snow castle? Like, a big one?" Judging by this reaction, Will would definitely be into the aforementioned Who's Who.
At Sam's repeated reassurances, Will finally scoops the rest of the change off of the chair, cradling it in his palms. He's got a brave face on, has had it since they left Indiana, but it flickers a little now. He hates this. He hates being miles away from home, poked and prodded and quizzed for hours, not knowing what the right thing to say or do is to make it all stop. He hates it and he's trying so hard to pretend he doesn't.
"It's not too bad," Will says finally, swaying a little in his seat, a nervous habit. He can't stay still when he lies, he fidgets, he shifts back and forth. With his hands curled around the money, the multiple puncture wounds from IV sites are easier to see, and he wonders wildly if Sam's been in those particular shoes. Instead he says, again: "It's not bad."