old soldier new sweater

He's there like she thought, in the same spot he always was, smoking the same cigarette like he always did. It was rhythmic, almost, and Bill prefered it that way. The world around them isn't getting better, so there's no need to make it worse with uncertainty.

"Hey there, kid." She wasn't a kid. He knew that, but the term of endearment seemed to stick to anyone he talked to. He turns to look at her, eyeing the fabric folded so diligently on her lap. Oh, it's for him.

His expression softens near instantly, and he takes it in his hands with a gentleness unexpected of the old soldier. unfolding it, he turns it over, fingers running across it as he examines every thread of yarn that's been sewn into it. he doesn't even notice it himself, but he's smiling.

"Did you make this?" Of course she did, Bill. Who else would have made it? The entity herself?

He’s glad that it’s green. Well, he would have liked it no matter what color it was, similar to how a teacher might appreciate and hang up a students drawing even if they don’t understand what’s going on in the picture. Gift giving was the easiest way into his heart, after all, and one of the few things that manages to break past his ”Tough shit, Tough love.” demeanor. But still, BIll’s glad it’s green. Matches the army uniform.

Saving the yarn. The idea of needles and different sizes, as well as how they affect the texture or feel of an item, is lost on Bill. He doesn’t knit, so he wouldn't know how much of an obstacle the knitting needles would have been. He doesn’t even realize they could break. But he does understand just how fucking hard it is to keep something once you’ve got it. The entity was fussy like that. Many a time he had found or otherwise obtained something, only to loose it later on because he never used it. It was infuriating.

“I bet it did.” He replies. Craftsmanship is hard. It’s something Bill never did nor wanted to invest in when he was younger, though he regrets it now. No hobbies aside from gun collecting and going off to war. He continues to examine the sweater. Not a sweater guy, but he’d wear it sometime, when the air around the campfire is particularly cold some nights. Practical, and handmade. It’s a good gift.

“Do you want something from me?” Bill Jokes. It’s not like he has anything to be persuaded into giving anyways, aside from cigarettes and war stories.