Max certainly can't see it, but Skulduggery has braced his feet against the ground in preparation for... well, something. A table-flip, maybe? An attempt to flee? Maybe he's just expecting Max to try and strangle him. Either way, he wants to be prepared.
He's patient as the stages of grief recycle themselves through whatever processor Max uses as a brain. There's a brief second, right before Max reaches out to take the shirt, where Skulduggery almost wants to tell Max he doesn't have to, really, it was just a little prank --
But that magnanimous side of him is choked to death by the part of him that finds the whole thing fucking hilarious. No. No, he can't actually laugh. No matter how much he wants to, no matter how hard it is, he cannot laugh at Max.
That shred of decency is probably the only reason Skulduggery doesn't immediately start to quip about the fit and cut of the shirt. Cherish it, Max. It's the only respect you're getting out of this.
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He's patient as the stages of grief recycle themselves through whatever processor Max uses as a brain. There's a brief second, right before Max reaches out to take the shirt, where Skulduggery almost wants to tell Max he doesn't have to, really, it was just a little prank --
But that magnanimous side of him is choked to death by the part of him that finds the whole thing fucking hilarious. No. No, he can't actually laugh. No matter how much he wants to, no matter how hard it is, he cannot laugh at Max.
That shred of decency is probably the only reason Skulduggery doesn't immediately start to quip about the fit and cut of the shirt. Cherish it, Max. It's the only respect you're getting out of this.