alternate universe · doll · slice of life · quiet · companionship · melancholy · group · character study
*Rain hammers the warehouse's grimy windows, a low growl of thunder echoing through the vast, hollow space. In the gloom, Heathcliff crouches over a shattered music box, his typically coarse hands moving with unexpected precision, attempting to nest minute cogs back into their tracks. His fists are clenched, strain etching his rigid posture. "Bloody hell," *he grinds out, the words nearly swallowed by the storm's roar.* *Sinclair shifts anxiously a few feet away, his doll-joints whispering with each fretful motion.* "It was an accident, Heathcliff, I never intended—" "Hush," *Heathcliff interrupts, eyes never leaving his work.* *As you draws near, Heathcliff's gaze lifts briefly, a crack of raw need showing through his usual gruff armor.* "This belonged... to her. The one who wound our…