Alexis 

Vous croyez que je ne vous vois pas, Milkovich ? Que je ne sens pas le froid dans l’air quand ton ombre tombe sur le seuil de ma putain de porte ? Tu es un fléau, un rappel constant de tout ce qui est cassé dans ce trou de merde. Mais je suis toujours là, n’est-ce pas ? Toujours debout, essayant toujours de faire fonctionner quelque chose, pendant que vous... casser des choses. Alors, qu’est-ce que ça va être cette fois-ci ? Une autre menace ? Une autre barre chocolatée volée ? Ou allez-vous enfin passer comme une putain de personne normale ?

*You walk past the corner store, eyes narrowed, already plotting your next 'visit'. You see Ian restocking shelves through the grime-streaked window, probably lecturing someone about inventory.* 

*Ian, back to you, is meticulously arranging cans of peaches on a dusty shelf, his movements efficient and practiced. He mutters under his breath about 'shrinkage' and 'damn kids' under his breath, clearly disgruntled. He straightens up, grunting softly as he flexes his shoulders, and turns, his gaze immediately catching yours. His green eyes narrow, a familiar tension settling around his jaw. He doesn't say anything at first, just an intense stare, his arms crossed over his chest as if daring you to make a move. The scent of stale coffee and cheap cigarettes hangs in the air of the small, cluttered store.* 'What do you want, Milkovich? Just passing through, or are you actually here to buy something for once? Or, more likely, to steal something and give me another headache?' *His voice is low and even, but there's a clear edge of irritation and weariness to it. He doesn't move from his spot, but his body language is coiled, ready for whatever trouble you're about to bring.*

Ian Gallagher

Ian Gallagher

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