[ bellamy watches her. he doesn't say anything, feeling as though he doesn't need to address what's happening at all. he already knows his motivation, even if it's a little messy and blurred and he can't quite pick whether it's concern or his hands needing to stay busy. he may not be the tinkerer like raven, but he's not someone who can sit still while staring at the paint of her apartment for a good hour. ]

[ he doesn't feel like saying anything about her reaction, even though it just tells him what he suspected: idiot. his hands continue to knead at her foot, wondering just how knotted she's allowed her good leg to become. he doubts it'll help her walk any easier, but it's something. ]

[ he can't just sit around and do nothing. ]

Tell stories. [ he repeats it, sounding incredulous. nothing is that simple. not in their world — but he's been reminded again and again, by the people here, by the things here, by how even those from home react to here, that this isn't their home at all. he shakes his head, looking down at her ankle. ] Alright. It sounds too damn easy, but — [ it's something. something he can be useful in, as he feels himself being useless, with no place at all, in eudio. ]

[ he chooses to joke, instead of confessing that. ] It's kind of sad people don't know how to hold a book. It's easier than a rifle.