[James just grunts a non-response, turning his wrist slowly to watch what's left in his glass shift and sheen. It's been almost thirty years since he had a father. He doesn't really know what it means to look at your father and respect him as a teenager, and he certainly doesn't know what it is to be one, against all the odds he's laid himself in a dozen different countries.
His hand stays on Cassel's head, almost as if he doesn't realize it's there. If he thinks too hard about the way his thumb occasionally moves over the back of the boy's skull, he'll run.
That's all it is, really. He always runs.
He ought to say something else. He knows the words he could say, but they feel too powerful, too big to fit across his tongue. So he lets those words float away and, as ever, says very little.]
spam
His hand stays on Cassel's head, almost as if he doesn't realize it's there. If he thinks too hard about the way his thumb occasionally moves over the back of the boy's skull, he'll run.
That's all it is, really. He always runs.
He ought to say something else. He knows the words he could say, but they feel too powerful, too big to fit across his tongue. So he lets those words float away and, as ever, says very little.]
It's not the best way to get things done.