A Refugee's Face

Kavinsky couldn't stand his own skin. Newt was a fire cracker, understanding but wanting to be protective of something that, ultimately, he didn't understand at the core of it. Al had that pitying look in his eyes, a lost boy who needed to be told what to do and how he could be of use. And, of course, neither of them could help with this. Neither of them had words stamped into their skin, glaring through every stitch of clothing, announcing themselves to the world.

He'd promised he wouldn't hurt himself. So, for Newt, he would not. But there were plenty of ways to erase himself without shredding his body.

So he got into the Mitsubishi and drove. There was nowhere to drive to. Back in Virginia, he would have gone to DC and asked to be put to task. Here in Darrow, he didn't have that option. He did--Newt would do whatever he asked of him, within reason. And that was the problem. Within reason. So he drove and drove, the world repeating itself like the backdrop of a vintage movie. He drove until everything seemed to blur together.

He drove until the Mitsubishi ran out of gas.

He could walk home from here. Instead, he sat in the car, looking belligerently out the windshield.

It was cold as shit, and being near half a foot shorter than he'd like to be--still, two days and a fair bout of rolling about the apartment later--wasn't making that any better. Kavinsky had had to break away from Newt and Al's attention because it was getting ridiculous, and they hadn't any food in the house. And neither one of them were going to get him chocolates. So he'd just have to get them himself.

After doing the proper grocery shopping, he'd grabbed himself a box of chocolates, all fancy and branded well from a little kiosk. He was nibbling on them slowly, edges of them as he worked his way across the park.

They were awful good chocolates.