"Captain. Cold. Leonard. Len. Whatever." Standing is easier when they're walking on dry floor, and with Kabal's bulk to support him until there's somewhere for him to sit.
Well, the floor was dry. Len's soaking wet. Puddles following him wherever he goes.
At least most of the tuna came off in the bathtub? Not that Len smells much better for it. He's going to need a real shower at some point. They both will. It's not like Kabal is smelling much sweeter than he is.
"And who the hell are you?" They're still close, but Len isn't looking at Kabal's face. He's staring at his arm. Already in the early stages of frostbite beneath the ice. Red, black, and purple. He wasn't lying when he said Kabal would need medical attention. He's frozen enough people to know exactly what his gun can do.
When people can be saved with a little TLC, and when they're as screwed as John Franklin and company.
Kabal isn't 'Terror' levels of screwed just yet, but he will be. His arm will rot right off the bone. Until Kabal's only options are to amputate, or die.
"Give me something to eat, and I'll keep your arm attached to your body." His eyes flick up to Kabal's eyes, or... the mask where his eyes would be, and hates that he can't read him. Len doesn't like being more naked in that way. More visible, more vulnerable, because he can't hide the purple smudges beneath his eyes or the way his gloved hand shakes when he tests the rigidity of Kabal's bicep with a less-than-gentle prod.
"Some warm water, a little exfoliation, and you can save the stuff beneath the top layer of skin. It'll grow back." His brow lifts, the corner of his mouth quirking.
no subject
Well, the floor was dry. Len's soaking wet. Puddles following him wherever he goes.
At least most of the tuna came off in the bathtub? Not that Len smells much better for it. He's going to need a real shower at some point. They both will. It's not like Kabal is smelling much sweeter than he is.
"And who the hell are you?" They're still close, but Len isn't looking at Kabal's face. He's staring at his arm. Already in the early stages of frostbite beneath the ice. Red, black, and purple. He wasn't lying when he said Kabal would need medical attention. He's frozen enough people to know exactly what his gun can do.
When people can be saved with a little TLC, and when they're as screwed as John Franklin and company.
Kabal isn't 'Terror' levels of screwed just yet, but he will be. His arm will rot right off the bone. Until Kabal's only options are to amputate, or die.
"Give me something to eat, and I'll keep your arm attached to your body." His eyes flick up to Kabal's eyes, or... the mask where his eyes would be, and hates that he can't read him. Len doesn't like being more naked in that way. More visible, more vulnerable, because he can't hide the purple smudges beneath his eyes or the way his gloved hand shakes when he tests the rigidity of Kabal's bicep with a less-than-gentle prod.
"Some warm water, a little exfoliation, and you can save the stuff beneath the top layer of skin. It'll grow back." His brow lifts, the corner of his mouth quirking.
"Smoother, maybe. I should offer face lifts."