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Beyond the obvious things, Thompson had rapidly acquired several pieces of knowledge. Firstly, that he was totally unprepared for the unscheduled nature of his arrival, and was going to have to claw a routine out of the days or completely fall apart--already he was feeling twitchy and hunted, and a couple of alarming lectures and a rattled-off list of directions were shaking around in his head and refusing to settle. Secondly, that asking for bleach and scrub brushes from the supply house got a perplexed and skeptical look, although it did in fact net bleach and scrub brushes. And thirdly, that taking a shower was going to become his own personal hell, because the showers were communal.

(For the time being, of course, it had been nothing of the sort. The blessedly-empty room had helped, but maybe it wouldn't have mattered: the sheer luxury of an unhurried hot shower had yielded pleasure and relief so intense it had damn near made him cry as he stood with his chin to his chest and let the heat run over the back of his neck. The water had run brown rivulets off him for a long time, even before he started scrubbing like he was trying to take his skin off, and he'd emerged three shades paler and having blunted two razors on the stubborn mass of his beard. He didn't remember the last time he'd been clean-shaven, and had stood under the water a while longer just passing his fingers over his chin. And his fingernails, nicotine-stained though they were, were no longer sporting black half-moons of caked crud. He felt like he'd lost five pounds in accumulated filth. Putting on his dirt-stiff jeans had felt like an act of desecration.)

The fourth thing he had learned was that he was going to have to do something, anything, for cigarettes.

He had not learned the implications of older buildings, or really remembered what it was like to have a door to close for that matter, and so his door had slowly and inexorably drifted open after he had failed to latch it properly. It left a clear view for any passers-by right into his spartan, newbie room--a process gone unnoticed because item number four had him sitting yet again on the floor, rooting desperately through a filthy and empty backpack held together with hope and duct tape. He'd found a hole in the lining for the third time, and for the third time was pushing his fingers around the corners and pockets in a futile effort to find a long-lost cigarette. His hair was still damp, and he'd been so disgusted at the thought of putting one of his dust-caked shirts over his scrubbed body that he'd just buttoned up his new coat instead. The transition from shining white-and-gold jacket to battered, worn-hemmed, filth-crusted jeans was startling, and without the layered shirts beneath it sagged on his slight shoulders, skinny neck swallowed up by the outsized lapels even with the help of the scarf.

"s**t," he whispered fiercely, losing his temper and wadding the bag up to throw it ungently at the bed. He pressed his hands to his eyes.

He jumped like he'd put his hand into an electric fence--far more enthusiastically than being spoken to warranted. Whether that was the new-Hunter stress talking or just habit was hard to tell, but there was, definitely, the air of a feral dog about him when he faced her: in the way he held himself as though he wanted to sink into his own ribcage, in the way his eyes, nearly lost in the deep hollows of his eyesockets and the dark circles beneath them and in surprisingly long eyelashes, looked at her like he couldn't decide whether to wag a timid tail or bite.

Possibly it was a good thing there was about ten feet of space between them. Even so, the snap won out, after a too-long second.

He gave her a significant look, then snorted. "Is it Bring Your Daughter to Work Day?" And for all his voice was as rough-edged as he looked like it'd be, and for all that it was imbued with as much defensive acid as he could muster--which was considerable--it was startlingly softspoken, and thinner and quieter than it should have been, with that face.

He hesitated, eyes fixed on her like she'd hurt him if he blinked, and for a moment his expression went distracted, distant.

Just exactly as if he was listening to someone talking that Peyton couldn't hear. He hadn't mastered a lack of expression when that happened, yet.

Whatever he'd heard, it--or possibly Peyton's overture of kindness--made his jaw work silently for a minute. He seemed incapable of sitting still, and his hand made a nervous, useless jerk in the air when he finally replied.

"I--" No. Poor choice of sentence starter. Abort, abort. Change course. "You know anyone who smokes here?" he managed. He was still crouched on the floor. He didn't even invite her in. He just watched her warily. Crossed scythes on the coat: a lot of wary watching was probably in his future, whether he realized it or not.

He closed his eyes, finally, although he looked like he did it more out of exhaustion than any sudden trust, and his palms were again returned to his forehead. His hands were alarmingly thin, the knuckles bruised. Of course no one ******** smoked. Naturally.

"And where would I find someone like that? Sit the ******** down," he added, pointing at a chair without opening his eyes. "Stop hovering."

He didn't say anything for a long time, just sat with his head tipped back and his palms pressed to his eyelids. A tremor wracked his hands, faint, barely-noticeable, really, and apparently that brought him back from wherever he was.

He didn't know how to respond to the rest of it--it made him snappy, defiant, and more pissed than he already was to be lectured by some five-foot teenager--and so he decided, in a moment of rare wisdom, not to. He glanced at her sideways and hesitated.

"Thompson," he said. Again that glazed, half-second look of distraction, an he corrected himself. "Obadiah, if this is a first-name type place. I don't even know. I'm not--" he struggled visibly to level his voice, to keep the snap out of it, and almost succeeded. "I'm not out to make myself a debtor on my first day here, but you know I have no money. So name your price, whatever." And then, very quietly, with a clear swallowing of his pride: "Thanks."

He passed his hand over his mouth distractedly, still unused to the lack of hair there, although he knew from experience that give or take four hours and he'd look like he'd gone three days again. He eyed her hair. Well, at least they wouldn't be barking grooming orders at him, more than likely.

"Like someone's sitting in the corner watching you," he said. OK, so there were lots of things that came as a shock, but clearly this was the one he was having the hardest time with, and his always-roving eyes searched the blank far wall. "Doesn't seem real yet. Still feel like I'm sleeping. Somnambulant."

His eyes drifted to the bottom of her coat, and he tried to remember. Great. She could probably kick his a**, then. This was thoroughly demoralizing. Easier to change the subject, backtrack: "You got laundry you need done?" Oh god, for the quiet hum of a washing machine and the smell of clean clothes. He realized he wasn't exactly a walking advertisement for his skills, and chose to disregard that inconvenient truth.

"I'm not letting you do me a favor for nothing," he said, touchy. Jesus Christ, but he couldn't wait to do his own laundry. The coat helped, as had the shower, but he knew he looked rough and wanted to smooth away as many of those coarse edges as he possibly could.

Abruptly--almost alarmingly, really--he grinned with a sharkish mouth full of yellow teeth. He was one of those people who looked down when they grinned, like it was a secret thought, perhaps not too nice, that brought it on. "I can fold a fitted sheet," he told her without looking at her, like he was telling her he could walk through walls. Like he was trying to be friendly, although he still just seemed like a dog baring his teeth.

The grin was banished as soon as it had arrived, as thoroughly as though it had never been there. The hunted-dog look was back in full force. Another restless, anxious movement of his skinny hands. Apparently she'd made the wrong choice.

Partner. He didn't like it. It implied a sort of equality, and despite his distaste for being called "sir," he didn't like that either. He got nothing from Fionnghal but silence, and was baffled by the question, posed so matter-of-factly. How did you answer a thing like that, like asking someone what book they were reading or where the nearest gas station was?

And so for answer, watching her nervously from under that heavy brow, he held up his hand to show the plain steel ring there, oddly grim-looking, and then, with an instinctiveness that unsettled him, he summoned the knife. It looked unforgivingly utilitarian, all of its sparse beauty derived from its suitability to its function--more like a tool than a weapon. He handled it without comfort or ease, and his fingers trembled briefly over the blade before it returned to the undecorated ring.

He spoke very hesitantly. Talking about a person who couldn't contribute to the conversation and also could not avoid hearing it seemed... wrong. Profoundly wrong, taboo wrong. "It..." No. What was the pronoun for a thing? "Do you give their names? How does... this is a bizarre question of etiquette, you get that, right?" It was obvious that he wasn't getting any internal help, so to speak. Probably whoever was inside that knife wasn't particularly chatty. "What's the convention?"