[She climbs up after him, a hand on the side of the hatch - angles with her shoulders just enough to let him by without moving too deep in the cramped vehicle.
--Because it is cramped, crowded with the detritus of four different lives overflowing into each other. It's clothes and dishware and spare shoes, one set of bunks with all the blankets pulled taut and the other spilling out; small flowers in the table and jars and jars and jars. It's mess and order, blatantly taking advantage of every narrow inch of space the rover allowed. And it's strangely intimate. Not that she isn't used to living on top of people. Not that she isn't used to close quarters, the minor bullshit that anyone who's anyone collects (pictures in the corners of mirrors and glued to the inside of sea chest lids, porno mags in full sight, wearing your boots and putting your feet on someone's bunk anyway--). But she's been in the Alliance with its regs and militantly 'squared away' sensibilities, has been cycled in and out of rovers since signing on with the CDC and the air of domesticity in ever corner of the compartment catches like knuckles pressed against her sternum.
Corvo leaves the door open; Shepard drags it shut with a heavy click. Moving to take the recently vacated seat, she doesn't bother to set the bottle down before unscrewing the cap. The rover is quiet enough, still enough, that the sound of the bottle's neck clinking against the glass as she pours one then the other seems significantly loud.]
Take a seat. Have a drink.
[He's half put together at best, she isn't here to talk bullshit - there's a kind of satisfactory power in that, isn't there? There sure as hell should be, her flak jacket collar turned up against her neck. She doesn't let herself look too hard at the interior of the rover or the squirming animals Corvo's currently juggling. Instead she spins the cap back on the bottle and sets in at the center of the table with a tinny metallic tang and wraps her hand expectantly around her own glass.]
no subject
--Because it is cramped, crowded with the detritus of four different lives overflowing into each other. It's clothes and dishware and spare shoes, one set of bunks with all the blankets pulled taut and the other spilling out; small flowers in the table and jars and jars and jars. It's mess and order, blatantly taking advantage of every narrow inch of space the rover allowed. And it's strangely intimate. Not that she isn't used to living on top of people. Not that she isn't used to close quarters, the minor bullshit that anyone who's anyone collects (pictures in the corners of mirrors and glued to the inside of sea chest lids, porno mags in full sight, wearing your boots and putting your feet on someone's bunk anyway--). But she's been in the Alliance with its regs and militantly 'squared away' sensibilities, has been cycled in and out of rovers since signing on with the CDC and the air of domesticity in ever corner of the compartment catches like knuckles pressed against her sternum.
Corvo leaves the door open; Shepard drags it shut with a heavy click. Moving to take the recently vacated seat, she doesn't bother to set the bottle down before unscrewing the cap. The rover is quiet enough, still enough, that the sound of the bottle's neck clinking against the glass as she pours one then the other seems significantly loud.]
Take a seat. Have a drink.
[He's half put together at best, she isn't here to talk bullshit - there's a kind of satisfactory power in that, isn't there? There sure as hell should be, her flak jacket collar turned up against her neck. She doesn't let herself look too hard at the interior of the rover or the squirming animals Corvo's currently juggling. Instead she spins the cap back on the bottle and sets in at the center of the table with a tinny metallic tang and wraps her hand expectantly around her own glass.]