Welcome to Gaia! ::

He let himself laugh a little louder, half because it was I my and half because he was relieved. "That woulda been a good one," he agreed. "Wouldn't put it past ya."

He turned them away from the main corridor once they were back on the first floor, swinging their hands a little as he picked up the pace—just in case there still was some danger out there. "But here's an idea: maybe I was chasin' ya 'cause I wanted t'kidnap ya down here anyway," Dawson said with a devious look that barely lasted the first few steps down. He wasn't the least bit threatening the way he carried himself, and his mouth was more familiar with an idiotic grin than it was a smirk.

It was dimly lit in the basement, but at least there weren't as many bloodstains as before. Along the way there was small patches of paint, miniature swatches Dawson had left up from back when he and Horace had considered repainting the whole thing. He led Maebe deep into the corridor, and after circumventing his neighbor's door which, while unassuming, gave off an ominous aura, he found his keys in his jean pocket and unlocked the door.

His room was a caveman's mess of craft resources, pillows, blankets, beanbag chairs, and food, each mostly nestled in some corner of the area but intermingling nevertheless. A toolbox sat on a shelf he had recently put together, as did an extremely cheesy looking romance novel, an converted RC truck with the Georgia flag and its control, and several other miscellaneous presents he had gotten for Christmas. Items were taped to the walls, several of which were movie posters such as Star Wars and Kill Bill, one which was a drawing of himself rendered rather well, a calendar next to a to do list, and a corkboard with pictures of family and friends that was leaning against the wall rather than pinned to it; there was also a necklace with a cross draped around it.

Letting go of her hand, Dawson closed the door with a wince. He hid it well up until then, but now that they were safe and not cold, he could feel the repercussions of trying to move around too much after one too many spars. He clutched at his side with a wince. "Bed's there," he said and indicated with one hand towards the biggest pile of blankets and pillows sitting atop of a simple spring mattress. "I got plenty a'snacks if her hungry. Uh...not sure 'bout fruit roll ups, though..."

Shuffling away, Dawson attempted to work on making the floor a little more navigable for them both, nudging things this way and that to clear a path. "Me?" He turned to look at the drawing and gave a hearty laugh at the idea. "Naw, that was from a friend for Christmas. I ain't shoddy myself, but I don't got that skill yet. Truck was from America, n' that book ya saw I borrowed from Horace." There was a bookmark in it somewhere in the middle of a rather...passionate scene between the couple painted on the cover.

"But naw, m'a lil' bit better with crafts...Oh!" He straightened up and pulled out something from his coat pocket: a thin leather bracelet stitched together with a silver crescent moon charm and several beads. "I, uh, was at yer place so I could give ya this," Dawson explained with a hesitant smile. "Friendship bracelet." There were several more like it in the mess of craft materials, moons and skulls and suns and clouds and leaves.

"Didja?" He was the picture of innocence as he continued cleaning up. (And by cleaning up, he meant pushing things on top of one another). "Whoops. Guess m'slower than I thought. Anyway, there's a couple a'strands you can undo ta make it tighter or looser if that don't fit."

With his back turned to her for a moment, Dawson let himself grimace as he touched his bandages through his shirt. Okay, just a little more, and...there. The beanbags were pulled together, and after grabbing a half empty water bottle he eased himself into one with a long sigh.

"So, welcome to the basement, Miss Maebe Grace Bertrand! Go get cozy however ya feel. Place ain't so bad after ya add some stuff," he said cheerily as he uncapped the bottle and sipped. "Ya almost forget there's s**t like torture devices lyin' about. I got music too if ya like background noise."

Dawson tried not to squirm when she felt around; he was lucky all he needed was a roll around his torso, given what could have happened with Ace. "Aw, well, let's be fair, darlin'," he said graciously. "You had more important stuff on yer mind, n' I didn't walk out thinkin' I'd hafta run an obstacle course either. 'Sides, a couple a'bruises n' scrapes ain't anythin' t'cry home about anyway, don' worry." Not when he had learned the better the weapon bond, the faster the healing process. Moons were supposed to be durable anyway; he considered this practice in endurance.

He frowned thoughtfully at the question and drummed his fingers along the water battle. "Well...I think so?" he began. "Bein' here is somethin' else, I tell you what. I only been on one mission so far, n' that was scary as hell." Dawson shuddered just thinking about the Insanity fog. "Things I hear happen, no wonder some people just ain't quite right after a while. I can hope I keep up, but I ain't a lionheart...On the other hand, I like the people here anyway. You got kooks, sure, but what place don' got a few, yeah? Here, y'know, I just..." He scratched under his cap self-consciously, a physical um, "I feel I can be...better here then I woulda back home, y'know? Actually do some good. I think some folks feel that way too."

He paused, realized he had gone on a while, and felt color rise to his cheeks. "So, uh, yeah, I guess is yer answer," he concluded mildly with a cough. "You?"

He didn't know how to answer. He had been found bloody, battered, and half out of his mind, and rescued by people who were now his coworkers. That was all he had needed to know to say yes.

Luckily Maebe diverted them to something he was more comfortable with, if only a few degrees so; holding someone as they cried wasn't something anyone should be an expert at. Dawson set his bottle down and folded his arms around her as he had before. He didn't see this as a favor returned: he saw it as a friend's duty. "Whatever helps, hun," he said gently as he cupped her back.

"'Course I wouldn't tell, honeybunch," he replied. "Promise." Dawson offered what he hope was a reassuring smile, just enough to show his dimples. "Ain't any a' my business, remember? What'd I tell 'em, anyway? I chased some poor girl 'round so much she started cryin'?"

Even that was enough to let a blush creep back on him, but he held her close. In spite of the urge to move--tap his foot or chew his lip or any other number of micro-actions he enacted--Dawson managed for the most part to stay still. It was important not to interrupt Maebe's grief in any way. Yet he found himself holding her tighter in small increments; his instinct was to hold fast and hard even the most fragile of things, because he wasn't good at learning how to hold back, much less when the logic was to squeeze pain out and replace it with TLC instead. He yearned for simple solutions like that, but life more often than not ended up going down far more complex paths; the best he could do was this and hope somehow it was enough to help.

It was hard, listening to that mournful sound and feeling something twist painfully in his chest every time. Maybe that was a mistake in his make up, to naturally care this much about something he didn't even know the cause of. Somewhere in the midst of it, Dawson found himself swaying just the slightest bit, letting his mind split between the motion, the strokes at her back, and the girl herself so as not to be overwhelmed by focusing on the one. He wished he had put on music anyway, or knew how to break up what was sitting in his throat into words that might help, something to help break up the pauses in between her cries.