An open declaration of trust from someone who barely knew Skulduggery at all was as refreshing as it was surprising. Maybe it shouldn't have been; this was the Scarecrow, after all. From what Skulduggery remembered of his character, he did tend to be blindly trusting. Still, it was a nice change of pace not to have to argue.
Even though he probably should have argued those last words. He couldn't quite call himself living proof anymore, could he?
Skulduggery was about to respond - with what, he wasn't sure, but it would have been something, and probably something poignant - when he opened up his own wardrobe to discover, quite prominently in alongside the pyjama pants, a suit. A suit he recognised well, because it was one of his. One crisp white dress shirt on one hanger, and a blue suit jacket and pants folded neatly on another. There was a hat in with the suit, a tie in with the shirt, and a pair of dress shoes on the floor of the wardrobe next to the slippers.
For a moment, all Skulduggery did was look at them. Well-tailored, excellent quality, the spitting image of his own suit back home; but he could tell, even from here, that it wasn't the one Ghastly made. The one Ghastly made was bulletproof. This one, obviously, wasn't.
But it was still a suit. Skulduggery didn't take his eyes off it, even as he quickly replayed the Scarecrow's words in his head. "So the popular theory goes, yes. Where I come from, death tends to be an exception." For him, anyway. There was still a first time, albeit much later than it should have come, and there would presumably be a second time as well. He just had no idea when. "It's not fun. It's usually painful. And no one knows anything about afterwards, so I'm afraid I can't give you much detail. But the pain usually has an end, so there's that. It's what happens when death isn't permanent that's worrying, and in a place like this - "
He cut himself off. He was doing that thing again, as Valkyrie so often pointed out. That thing where he wasn't being sympathetic enough. Skulduggery took a deep breath in, just because he could, and swallowed once, just because he needed the practice. "I'm sure everything will be fine. Your death will either be permanent, or it won't happen. I'll make sure of it."
no subject
Even though he probably should have argued those last words. He couldn't quite call himself living proof anymore, could he?
Skulduggery was about to respond - with what, he wasn't sure, but it would have been something, and probably something poignant - when he opened up his own wardrobe to discover, quite prominently in alongside the pyjama pants, a suit. A suit he recognised well, because it was one of his. One crisp white dress shirt on one hanger, and a blue suit jacket and pants folded neatly on another. There was a hat in with the suit, a tie in with the shirt, and a pair of dress shoes on the floor of the wardrobe next to the slippers.
For a moment, all Skulduggery did was look at them. Well-tailored, excellent quality, the spitting image of his own suit back home; but he could tell, even from here, that it wasn't the one Ghastly made. The one Ghastly made was bulletproof. This one, obviously, wasn't.
But it was still a suit. Skulduggery didn't take his eyes off it, even as he quickly replayed the Scarecrow's words in his head. "So the popular theory goes, yes. Where I come from, death tends to be an exception." For him, anyway. There was still a first time, albeit much later than it should have come, and there would presumably be a second time as well. He just had no idea when. "It's not fun. It's usually painful. And no one knows anything about afterwards, so I'm afraid I can't give you much detail. But the pain usually has an end, so there's that. It's what happens when death isn't permanent that's worrying, and in a place like this - "
He cut himself off. He was doing that thing again, as Valkyrie so often pointed out. That thing where he wasn't being sympathetic enough. Skulduggery took a deep breath in, just because he could, and swallowed once, just because he needed the practice. "I'm sure everything will be fine. Your death will either be permanent, or it won't happen. I'll make sure of it."