drained her energy. a little vague, but Laura quirks a brow as he calls in an assistant in the form of the barman, has a brief exchange, and—
she gasps as he does. she's no stranger to violence, usually violence much worse than this, but the shock factor... there's just something about a hand impaled with a fork that's always going to echo across into your own palm and leave you squirming. there's a twist, a release, and then she's watching as the wound disappears before her eyes.
the man slumps. Kovacs slams the counter and it splinters a little under his fist. Laura stares at the table, up at Kovacs, down at the bartender. ]
What the fuck? [ hissed and frantic. it's not at the display, not really. his power's - fucking weird, but also insanely useful.
but the delivery? here, of all places? sure, the joint isn't heaving, but you can't just stab and heal a person in the middle of a bar.
getting up, Laura reaches out across the table to clasp fingers in a vice around his wrist, paying no mind to the bond that blooms open and gives him all of her surprise, her satisfaction (he's going to be good to have around, that's for sure), her frustration, her haste, the border of fury. ] What the fuck!
[ but there's a loose end. the bartender, groggy but hardly an amnesiac. not releasing Kovacs' wrist, he can lean to accommodate her or not - she'll let go if she has to in order to get this done - she crouches next to the wounded n-wounded man, smile wide and unnerving. ]
Hi. Did he pay you well? I hope so. That was a fee for your silence. Because if I hear one fucking word about this from anyone, anyone, we'll be back. And you think he looks scary?
[ smile stretching wider, Laura reaches up to hook her finger into the neckline of her shirt, dragging it lower until the autopsy scars meeting at her sternum are on clear show. when she's sure that they've been seen, she releases her shirt and pats him square on the cheek. ]
Be good, okay?
[ and with that she's up, either re-grabbing or pulling hard on Kovacs' wrist as she makes a beeline for the door. ]
no subject
drained her energy. a little vague, but Laura quirks a brow as he calls in an assistant in the form of the barman, has a brief exchange, and—
she gasps as he does. she's no stranger to violence, usually violence much worse than this, but the shock factor... there's just something about a hand impaled with a fork that's always going to echo across into your own palm and leave you squirming. there's a twist, a release, and then she's watching as the wound disappears before her eyes.
the man slumps. Kovacs slams the counter and it splinters a little under his fist. Laura stares at the table, up at Kovacs, down at the bartender. ]
What the fuck? [ hissed and frantic. it's not at the display, not really. his power's - fucking weird, but also insanely useful.
but the delivery? here, of all places? sure, the joint isn't heaving, but you can't just stab and heal a person in the middle of a bar.
getting up, Laura reaches out across the table to clasp fingers in a vice around his wrist, paying no mind to the bond that blooms open and gives him all of her surprise, her satisfaction (he's going to be good to have around, that's for sure), her frustration, her haste, the border of fury. ] What the fuck!
[ but there's a loose end. the bartender, groggy but hardly an amnesiac. not releasing Kovacs' wrist, he can lean to accommodate her or not - she'll let go if she has to in order to get this done - she crouches next to the wounded n-wounded man, smile wide and unnerving. ]
Hi. Did he pay you well? I hope so. That was a fee for your silence. Because if I hear one fucking word about this from anyone, anyone, we'll be back. And you think he looks scary?
[ smile stretching wider, Laura reaches up to hook her finger into the neckline of her shirt, dragging it lower until the autopsy scars meeting at her sternum are on clear show. when she's sure that they've been seen, she releases her shirt and pats him square on the cheek. ]
Be good, okay?
[ and with that she's up, either re-grabbing or pulling hard on Kovacs' wrist as she makes a beeline for the door. ]