( there's a table in the room that wasn't there before. just a shitty, cheap plastic fold up one, but it's covered in metal shavings, in sharp objects, with what looks like an oxyacetylene torch resting right on the edge. nothing's hot, and oliver's not even standing by it anymore. instead, he's sitting at the desk with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a small, black navel ring with intricate designs carved into it and lines of shimmering gold threading through the plain black, thin enough to be hard to notice but easy enough to spot if someone's looking for it.
and a pair of clamps with a cannula piercing needle sitting right next to it on the other side of him.
he's wearing pants. which is the most outside-y clothing oliver's worn since the pit. )
You remember the rule, right? If you're going to fucking smoke in here you need to share.
no subject
and a pair of clamps with a cannula piercing needle sitting right next to it on the other side of him.
he's wearing pants. which is the most outside-y clothing oliver's worn since the pit. )
You remember the rule, right? If you're going to fucking smoke in here you need to share.