Can't always get everything you want. [He teases. McCree's got a particular way of being polite with women, though Ashe makes an exception in many cases. Besides, he's sure he'll score bigger and better if this place does have a way to kindle a fire. He hears her wandering around and he's sure to pick the opposite direction she goes in. This place isn't terribly big and it's not long before he does find a fireplace. Old dusty stone and cobwebs have settled in and he can feel a cold draft snaking in through the chimney. Unfortunately there's no wood to burn. Just ash. then this turned into a horror meme
He hums disapprovingly, muttering to himself while rubbing a hand over his beard.] Figures.
[That's fine, he's nothing if not resourceful. Elsewhere in the cabin there's a small wood table and two wooden chairs. He's not afraid to resort to that if needed but then his eyes settle on an old painting right above the fireplace; it's a painting of an idyllic farm on a meadow under a clear blue sky. It's framed in the world's most garish wood. He stares at the akimbo canvas for only a few seconds before rising on the tips of his boots and stretching his arms up to take it down.]
You know, I never was one for art.
[He grew upon a farm. She knows that. That's about as much as he can appreciate out of this. He remembers the rows of ostentatious, expensive paintings in her house, hung up casually like he would a pin-up calendar. He turns the canvas over to see if there's anything hidden important behind it--nothing, strangely not even a signature--then quietly bids it goodbye before jabbing his heel through it to break it into usable pieces.]
no subject
then this turned into a horror memeHe hums disapprovingly, muttering to himself while rubbing a hand over his beard.] Figures.
[That's fine, he's nothing if not resourceful. Elsewhere in the cabin there's a small wood table and two wooden chairs. He's not afraid to resort to that if needed but then his eyes settle on an old painting right above the fireplace; it's a painting of an idyllic farm on a meadow under a clear blue sky. It's framed in the world's most garish wood. He stares at the akimbo canvas for only a few seconds before rising on the tips of his boots and stretching his arms up to take it down.]
You know, I never was one for art.
[He grew upon a farm. She knows that. That's about as much as he can appreciate out of this. He remembers the rows of ostentatious, expensive paintings in her house, hung up casually like he would a pin-up calendar. He turns the canvas over to see if there's anything hidden important behind it--nothing, strangely not even a signature--then quietly bids it goodbye before jabbing his heel through it to break it into usable pieces.]