Revolutionary War Roleplay! [CLOSED]

John said absolutely nothing.

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John waited in his undershirt in the rain, waiting for her to answer. Clinton wasn't letting him borrow coats anymore. So here he was, to get it back from where he had torn it off his own shoulders in an impassionated, awful decision. He looked down at his shoes, then back to the door, and knocked again.

Mirelle looked up from behind the bar and wiped her hands on the front of her dress before hurrying over to open the door. She looked as though she'd been slapped. "M-Monsieur André?"

He looked sideways and down. Quietly, he murmured, "I left my coat here…"

"Won't you come in? Out of the rain at least." She opened the door wider.

John shuffled inside. His hair drooped against his skull, soaked, dripping and simply soaking him further. He wore a leather vest over his undershirt as most men did, but what was visible of the shirt had turned sheer from the water. "Where is it…?" He asked quietly, seeming subdued.

"In my room," she murmured. "Would you like me to get it?"

He nodded briefly, rolling his sleeves up. The moisture made his arms itch.

"Are you alright?" she asked worriedly.

He breathed in deep, then nodded very small. He looked distracted.

"Your face doesn't agree," she said simply.

"Mhh.." he grunted quietly, lifting his head. A blond cowlick sprung from being trapped under his head, and perched over his forehead.

"Good morning," he greeted, syllables slurred from a sleep-induced fog.

"Your face doesn't agree," she said simply.

"I have a lot on my mind," he murmured. Oh, he seemed to kind and gentle. It just wasn't fair that the universe would dangle him in front of her like this.

"Mhh.." he grunted quietly, lifting his head. A blond cowlick sprung from being trapped under his head, and perched over his forehead.

"Good morning," he greeted, syllables slurred from a sleep-induced fog.

He set his head back down, and breathed a huge yawn.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked, rubbing at his eyes.

"wonderfully," he replied. His voice sounded basey and growly in the mornings.

"I'm glad." He scooted up the bed and leaned his side against the headboard, legs curled beneath him.

Bailey turned his face towards him, folding his hands over his upper stomach.

A shy smile graced his lips. Shaking his fluffed hair out of his eyes, George reached out a tentative hand, fingers grazing Bailey's cheek.

His eyes flickered down and softened, a thoughtful glaze passing over them.

"Your face doesn't agree," she said simply.

"I have a lot on my mind," he murmured. Oh, he seemed to kind and gentle. It just wasn't fair that the universe would dangle him in front of her like this.

"You can tell me, if you like," she said quietly. "I'm a good listener."

His eyes flickered down and softened, a thoughtful glaze passing over them.

George settled both hands in his lap, swallowing nervously.

"Your face doesn't agree," she said simply.

"I have a lot on my mind," he murmured. Oh, he seemed to kind and gentle. It just wasn't fair that the universe would dangle him in front of her like this.

"You can tell me, if you like," she said quietly. "I'm a good listener."

He shook his head. "I can't.."

His eyes flickered down and softened, a thoughtful glaze passing over them.

George settled both hands in his lap, swallowing nervously.

"Hey…" Bailey breathed.

"Your face doesn't agree," she said simply.

"I have a lot on my mind," he murmured. Oh, he seemed to kind and gentle. It just wasn't fair that the universe would dangle him in front of her like this.

"You can tell me, if you like," she said quietly. "I'm a good listener."

He shook his head. "I can't.."

"Why not?" she looked off-put.

Oh, that expression guilted him into speaking. "I'm just overwhelmed.. right now.."

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong?" she asked, fixing his hair gently.

"There's too much to talk about," he murmured vulnerably.

"Hey…." he echoed, a bit of nervousness seeping into his tone.