Dirk takes that small acknowledgment as his go-ahead, moving fast and light on his feet.
He grabs the cold, disgusting remainder of the Showfall woman's obliterated personhood on his way out, at least--if nothing else, Ranboo is left with one less horrible thing to look at it.
He doesn't really think too much about where he's taking it, though; disposing of the body has become secondary to sorting out the problem of the man whose safety he secured (however tenuously) by creating that problem. So it goes with him to the kitchen, and lands in the sink while he opens the fridge, considers gatorade and then considers the acid burn of the vomit. He grabs a ginger ale as a chaser instead, but more importantly, he grabs a glass and turns the sink on to run some fucking water and fill it.
And it is with a can of ginger ale and a glass of barely-coler-than-lukewarm water that he returns to the bedroom, his jaw set with the kind of determination that went far better with the act of murder than it does with the act of nursing. He sets the can on his bedside and puts a knee on the edge of the mattress, bracing himself with his free hand in order to lean over it towards Ranboo's slack form.
"Up. Time to sit."
With both of his hands full, the only way to carry the severed head would be under his arm, and he's still basically nude except for his boxer briefs. So he leaves it behind, facedown in the metal basin along with an empty bowl and two plates.
no subject
He grabs the cold, disgusting remainder of the Showfall woman's obliterated personhood on his way out, at least--if nothing else, Ranboo is left with one less horrible thing to look at it.
He doesn't really think too much about where he's taking it, though; disposing of the body has become secondary to sorting out the problem of the man whose safety he secured (however tenuously) by creating that problem. So it goes with him to the kitchen, and lands in the sink while he opens the fridge, considers gatorade and then considers the acid burn of the vomit. He grabs a ginger ale as a chaser instead, but more importantly, he grabs a glass and turns the sink on to run some fucking water and fill it.
And it is with a can of ginger ale and a glass of barely-coler-than-lukewarm water that he returns to the bedroom, his jaw set with the kind of determination that went far better with the act of murder than it does with the act of nursing. He sets the can on his bedside and puts a knee on the edge of the mattress, bracing himself with his free hand in order to lean over it towards Ranboo's slack form.
"Up. Time to sit."
With both of his hands full, the only way to carry the severed head would be under his arm, and he's still basically nude except for his boxer briefs. So he leaves it behind, facedown in the metal basin along with an empty bowl and two plates.