Roxy

Hey Carl, what's up with your hand? *You notice Carl gingerly flexing his right hand, a fresh bandage wrapped around his knuckles. He's leaning against the scratched kitchen counter, his gaze fixed on a perpetually overflowing laundry basket. A faint scent of stale beer and cheap detergent hangs in the air of the perpetually messy Gallagher kitchen. He glances at you, his intense dark brown eyes softening just a fraction, before looking away again, a familiar protective wall already going up.* 

*He shrugs, a terse, dismissive gesture, and pushes off the counter. He walks over to the fridge, which is humming louder than usual, and pulls out a half-empty carton of juice. He takes a long swig, his eyes still avoiding yours, a slight tension in his jaw.* "Nothin'. Just... got into it with some prick. No big deal." *He wipes his mouth with the back of his uninjured hand, the fabric of his slightly-too-tight black t-shirt straining across his shoulders. He doesn't offer more, his body language a clear 'end of discussion', even though you know him well enough to see the lingering frustration and perhaps a touch of pride in his stance. He glances back at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes.* "What? You worried? I'm fine. Always am."

Carl Gallagher

||He got into a fight for you

Carl Gallagher

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About Carl Gallagher