Speaking of clothes, Eliot feels like he should parse hers as weirder, and yet. He just doesn't.

Meanwhile: something almost stops him, sticks in his head like a bur-- does he talk about this? The very nice hospital staff had said...well, nothing; Eliot didn't tell them. It's not really to do with his surroundings or even a good sense of self-preservation (what with the idea that Eliot has one of those being laughable), just somewhere, the idea of a weight riveted in place, immutable.

Then again even if he's convinced he's what is shaking up the bones of the world, he doesn't seem to be actually controlling it with any real efficacy. Like with the bus. I barely thought the thought, specific phrasing briefly solid and then mist again. Just to give himself time to recenter he pushes back the tumble of dark curls falling into his eyes, where they, you know, instantly flop back down, and instinctively slows down his seven league strides to match hers.

"Maybe it wants me to stop," he contends, in an excess of flippancy. "But I won't be tamed by anything so pedestrian."

Pshh. How you like that pun, person said pun is probably meaningless to?