Ishmael sometimes thought he was too good. He was not even trying, tonight, had not been trawling for particular favours, had not been trying to entice anyone to anything.
Maybe he just had an eye for that specific air of desperation. Sometimes it was bred by misery, sometimes by loneliness, or sheer recklessness - whatever it was, it was always clear enough what they needed. He’d feel bad about it, if he didn’t expend a great deal of energy convincing himself he was the often the only person lending them a hand, looking out for them.
He knew what Kieran was looking for.
He should say no. Quash this right here.
“Are you telling me you can’t think of anything?” Ishmael heard himself say instead, the smirk appearing almost out of habit, unbidden.
Maybe he just had an eye for that specific air of desperation. Sometimes it was bred by misery, sometimes by loneliness, or sheer recklessness - whatever it was, it was always clear enough what they needed. He’d feel bad about it, if he didn’t expend a great deal of energy convincing himself he was the often the only person lending them a hand, looking out for them.
He knew what Kieran was looking for.
He should say no. Quash this right here.
“Are you telling me you can’t think of anything?” Ishmael heard himself say instead, the smirk appearing almost out of habit, unbidden.
