Francis sort of accepts that taking him back to his room means that he'll be able to find it again uninvited, but he's willing to risk it. So far it hasn't turned out too badly. And he can't help the way he grins when he says he's the best he's ever seen. "Ohh, I'm gonna." There's almost a touch of heat to the words, cause competence is fucking sexy, and oh but he does want to see the extent of the man's skills. Back in the room was just a taste, which isn't really enough. And it's not flattery if it's fact. He's not even playing it up right now.
"Yeah? Put a bow in my hands and I don't miss. But I learned with knives when I was too young to hold one. Can manage okay with most things you can throw if things get bad." So, he's not nearly as versatile as the other man, but he likes his bow anyway, so he's sort of okay with that. And there is that implication there of just how young Francis was when he first had a weapon in his hands.
Really, letting him go so he can unlock the door is practical, but doesn't mean that he doesn't miss the contact, though he doesn't comment on it. Suspicion is entirely reasonable, but Francis' room is almost boring once he gets the key in the lock and the door open, waving Bullseye inside. His bow on the wall, quiver tucked between the bed and the nightstand, and if he's attentive he might be able to tell it's Clint's bow-- or was. It's older, more worn, but lovingly cared for, the same lines, same draw weight.
Who knows where Francis got purple sheets in Hell, but he does like his color theme. It's pretty plain, but not unwelcoming. The bed's bigger than in the temporary shared rooms, and there's a chair near the closet, a mirror above the dresser. Definitely doesn't look like torture, anyway. Francis shrugs out of his coat, slight catch of his breath as it drags against the cuts on his skin, and slides to sit on the edge of the bed. His head tilts slightly as he looks up at him.
"It's not much, but it's Hell, so I guess it's alright." There's a vague humor there; something that implies he's probably had much worse.
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"Yeah? Put a bow in my hands and I don't miss. But I learned with knives when I was too young to hold one. Can manage okay with most things you can throw if things get bad." So, he's not nearly as versatile as the other man, but he likes his bow anyway, so he's sort of okay with that. And there is that implication there of just how young Francis was when he first had a weapon in his hands.
Really, letting him go so he can unlock the door is practical, but doesn't mean that he doesn't miss the contact, though he doesn't comment on it. Suspicion is entirely reasonable, but Francis' room is almost boring once he gets the key in the lock and the door open, waving Bullseye inside. His bow on the wall, quiver tucked between the bed and the nightstand, and if he's attentive he might be able to tell it's Clint's bow-- or was. It's older, more worn, but lovingly cared for, the same lines, same draw weight.
Who knows where Francis got purple sheets in Hell, but he does like his color theme. It's pretty plain, but not unwelcoming. The bed's bigger than in the temporary shared rooms, and there's a chair near the closet, a mirror above the dresser. Definitely doesn't look like torture, anyway. Francis shrugs out of his coat, slight catch of his breath as it drags against the cuts on his skin, and slides to sit on the edge of the bed. His head tilts slightly as he looks up at him.
"It's not much, but it's Hell, so I guess it's alright." There's a vague humor there; something that implies he's probably had much worse.