Yeah. That’s a telling fucking response right there, isn’t it? That inhalation, the shift in cadence. Gabe’s too well trained for his mask to slip and so he smiles, teeth flashing, and if his tone is a touch frosty, that’s his own goddamn business. Resentment burns in his chest at how easy this is for other people now, that all his games and tricks count for absolutely fucking nothing when he wakes up with no prosthetics in his skull. Anyone can just look at him and know. Anyone at all.

“You’re making me work real hard for this one,” Gabe observes, eyebrows lifting. “What, you hungover or something?”

He won’t flinch. He refuses to flinch and so he’ll push until he gets something to kill the boredom or a reaction he can use.