Johnny scowls at the little nod to his own name - almost no one notices that, or they don't comment on it at least - but he says nothing, focusing his attention on the task beneath his hands. At the edge of his gaze he notes Niall touching the pages on the door - noticing. Reading. He bristles quietly, keeping it inside for now.
When the door is opened, Johnny looks up, eyeing the production with droll, affected disinterest. Inwardly he's screaming, railing at himself for even considering leaving - leaving this room behind, where anyone could stumble across it - but what choice does he have, really? If he stays here it'll kill him, for real this time. Probably. Doesn't want to wait around to find out.
He stands on shaky deerlike legs and steps toward the door, eyes on the Doctor for now, then, just as he nears, darting to the broken pages on the door itself.
No.
The letters. The fucking Whalestoe Letters. Her letters. Pelafina fucking Truant née who-gives-a-good-goddamn. All over the door, for some reason, probably beautifully allegorical if he gave it a moment's due consideration. He pushes past Niall into the next room, the master bedroom, and he pivots back immediately and seizes the taller man by the lapels of his pretentious fucking jacket. It's ridiculous - Niall is immensely tall compared to him, there's no way he can impose himself at all, but he's angry, and he's stupid.
"You had no right to read those," he snarls. "I saw you. They weren't yours."
no subject
When the door is opened, Johnny looks up, eyeing the production with droll, affected disinterest. Inwardly he's screaming, railing at himself for even considering leaving - leaving this room behind, where anyone could stumble across it - but what choice does he have, really? If he stays here it'll kill him, for real this time. Probably. Doesn't want to wait around to find out.
He stands on shaky deerlike legs and steps toward the door, eyes on the Doctor for now, then, just as he nears, darting to the broken pages on the door itself.
No.
The letters. The fucking Whalestoe Letters. Her letters. Pelafina fucking Truant née who-gives-a-good-goddamn. All over the door, for some reason, probably beautifully allegorical if he gave it a moment's due consideration. He pushes past Niall into the next room, the master bedroom, and he pivots back immediately and seizes the taller man by the lapels of his pretentious fucking jacket. It's ridiculous - Niall is immensely tall compared to him, there's no way he can impose himself at all, but he's angry, and he's stupid.
"You had no right to read those," he snarls. "I saw you. They weren't yours."