The smile is nice. It's a friendly one, one not used for ill gain. It's his first impression, anyway, and he nods his understanding as the blond takes the offering for warmth.
He was going to go--honestly, he really and truly was--when something catches his attention. It's the brash, almost nasal way he speaks. He'd recognize that accent anywhere.
It's strange: his time in New York, his life, it hadn't been a happy one in the least, and yet that accent still makes him homesick. Terribly, terribly so, and he thinks of Modesty and Chastity, and the other kids he knows by at the very least sight. He thinks about the kind Witch who helped him with his Ma, and the British man who tried to help him.
This feeling, Credence realizes, is homesickness.
"I don't mean to be a bother, but--a-are you from New York?" He asks, and he almost feels bad, asking him questions. He clearly just wants to check his bag.
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He was going to go--honestly, he really and truly was--when something catches his attention. It's the brash, almost nasal way he speaks. He'd recognize that accent anywhere.
It's strange: his time in New York, his life, it hadn't been a happy one in the least, and yet that accent still makes him homesick. Terribly, terribly so, and he thinks of Modesty and Chastity, and the other kids he knows by at the very least sight. He thinks about the kind Witch who helped him with his Ma, and the British man who tried to help him.
This feeling, Credence realizes, is homesickness.
"I don't mean to be a bother, but--a-are you from New York?" He asks, and he almost feels bad, asking him questions. He clearly just wants to check his bag.