[All he gets is a blink. Gamzee doesn't own anything warmer. At night he's been folding himself between two of the soft mattresses, and pretending to be a fresh-pressed grub. There's too little of his slime left to sleep in.
And when he's got enough slime, he doesn't even feel it. He looks at Tavros, and smiles again, happily.]
[He's cold all over, actually, but not so he can feel it. His skin's too numb for that thanks to all his sopor. Everything's got a nice warm glow to it. Hypothermia is just a long word and all, and how can you tell anyways, when your skin's gray, and your face is decked with demon greasepaint.
It felt really, really great to hold you, but then again, it always feels good to hold you. Or Karkat. Or any of those other warm motherfuckers.
He peers sideways.]
[He's staring pointedly at your legs, pushes one with his knee so it matches up with the other, your feet in the right places.
Gamzee could see you being cold.
He screws up his face in concentration and folds his hands, "getting his commune on" with the house.
A quilted pink blanket drops from the ceiling, and snags on one of your horns. It has fat little naked human-grub-things with wings on it, starting simperingly up at the ceiling, with these flimsy looking fixed sheets not quite covering their cheeky pink backsides. Actually, it looks like it once served as a tablecloth at one of the less than savory teaparties in this place, which is all sorts of awkward, and makes on wonder what it might do...but it sure looks warm, and definitely seems big enough for you.
Gamzee gives a honk of delight and throws a pinch of glittering stuff out of his pocket.
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timeasmymeasure
Sorry. I had to edit that for some miracles. I know you'll approve of the blanket. Have fun with it.
Date: 2012-01-01 06:44 am (UTC)And when he's got enough slime, he doesn't even feel it. He looks at Tavros, and smiles again, happily.]
[He's cold all over, actually, but not so he can feel it. His skin's too numb for that thanks to all his sopor. Everything's got a nice warm glow to it. Hypothermia is just a long word and all, and how can you tell anyways, when your skin's gray, and your face is decked with demon greasepaint.
It felt really, really great to hold you, but then again, it always feels good to hold you. Or Karkat. Or any of those other warm motherfuckers.
He peers sideways.]
[He's staring pointedly at your legs, pushes one with his knee so it matches up with the other, your feet in the right places.
Gamzee could see you being cold.
He screws up his face in concentration and folds his hands, "getting his commune on" with the house.
A quilted pink blanket drops from the ceiling, and snags on one of your horns. It has fat little naked human-grub-things with wings on it, starting simperingly up at the ceiling, with these flimsy looking fixed sheets not quite covering their cheeky pink backsides. Actually, it looks like it once served as a tablecloth at one of the less than savory teaparties in this place, which is all sorts of awkward, and makes on wonder what it might do...but it sure looks warm, and definitely seems big enough for you.
Gamzee gives a honk of delight and throws a pinch of glittering stuff out of his pocket.
He loves the miracles in this place.
Cal gets a fistbunp for good measure.]