Weedy-chin and Kian watched with baited breath as their captor rearranged Lydia’s prone body. He muttered something softly, to Lydia or himself, and cupped her face to support her neck. Weird apprehension stirred in Kian’s gut - what the fuck was going on? The careful, conscious movements of the young man - tucking the woman’s hair behind her ear, positioning her head against her own arms - did not fit the casual violence he had shown when smashing Lydia’s face into the wall. That movement had been certain as well, not a sudden impulse borne of anger. Studying literature meant having a certain understanding of the human psyche, the prudent observer created by countless hours revising film and novel for paper after paper couldn’t help but notice the finer details.<br/><br/>The man stood, and for a moment it seemed mercifully as though he had every intention to walk right back up the stairs. Miserably, that was not the case.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #80BFFF"> "Well good morning,"</span></span><br/><br/>The light was blinding after the previous gloom. Kian ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut - whatever had happened to his head, the sudden change in brightness had not done it any good. Long fingers gripped his chin and tilted his face upward. The touch was surprisingly gentle, though there was no mistaking the steel behind it that brokered no-nonsense. Kian remained pliant to allow his face to be turned and inspected, the sharp crack of Lydia’s head making contact with the brickwork still at the forefront of his mind. He was possibly concussed, not stupid. All the same, Kian attempted to keep his fluttering gaze on his captor’s features despite how the light silhouetted behind him caused a dull throb in his temples and starbursts of brightness in his vision.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #80BFFF">"How are you feeling?"</span></span><br/><br/>Kian opened his mouth to respond before thinking the better of it.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #80BFFF">"If I had to guess, probably not very well. I hit you harder than I meant to, so I have to apologize for that, but-" And Jesus, if that faux friendly smile isn’t terrifying, nothing is. "-but I guess you'll have that, won't you?"</span></span><br/><br/>So that’s why he feels like shit. The touch to Kian’s wounded scalp sends a sharp pulse of pain through him, though he refrains from the overwhelming impulse to jerk away. A low hiss escapes from between his gritted teeth and the sight of blood, bright in the flooding light, reignites the nausea churning away in his stomach in dying waves. A low sob attracts his tormentor’s attention, Weedy-chin is staring at Lydia with a hopeless expression. It takes all too much willpower for Kian’s liking to stop himself from sighing with relief when those inquisitive, amused eyes cease their careful inspection and focus on the basement’s other inhabitant.<br/><br/>The interaction is beyond bizarre in an already outlandish scenario. Model-face voice never wavers from that strange, school-teacher patience. The desperate thought that this is some insane dream occurs to Kian briefly before he quashes it entirely. He knows enough about his own head to know that his nightmares don’t roll this way. Phantoms and fire, sure, there would be nothing out of the ordinary for his average REM cycle there, but this was different. Telling himself that it was all a fantasy in a pitiful attempt to make it all go away would certainly not help. Even with his mind working at maybe 50 percent capacity right now Kian knew treading cautiously would be in his best interest. Besides, he’d seen all too many scream-queens in horror movies end up dead in a ditch as a result of the ‘this isn’t really happening’ trope.<br/><br/>Weedy-chin - Thomas - somehow managed to look even further defeated with the realization that Model-face was essentially done with him. He sunk low, kneeling and curled in upon himself as much as possibly with his hands shackled above him. The wilted older man had made no indication to being aware of anything happening around him, his head was angled downward and the bright bare bulb of light left his face in shadow so that it was impossible to tell if his eyes were open or closed, but Kian thought he caught the shallow movement of his chest rising and falling in time with his breath.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #80BFFF">"I suppose you'll be wanting some water soon. When's the last time you had anything to eat?"</span></span><br/><br/>Kian’s eyes flicked back to their captor. This was too fucking weird. He licked his lips and swallowed, trying to force some moisture back into his parched throat in order to respond. He nodded in reference to the water, though he had no idea what time it was now, let alone how long he’d been blacked out for and when he’d last eaten. Can’t have been long if he actually woke up again. He’d heard somewhere that being unconscious for more than than a few hours usually meant serious brain damage. While he was a little slower than usual on the uptake, he didn’t feel...well he had no idea how someone would feel if they were brain damaged, but outside of the pain and understandable anxiety he didn’t feel too different to how he usually did.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #00BF80">“Kind of you.”</span></span>Replied warily, voice hoarse. He twitched his wrists to rattle his chains lightly.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #00BF80">“I’ve had better service before though.” </span></span><br/><br/>Oh brilliant idea, antagonize your highly likely to be homicidal captor.<br/>Maybe he was brain damaged after all.