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Meeting a Shadow [closed to Newt]
Brisco knew he was being followed.
And not by those things scurrying around the station either. Those things, the 'ratborg', he could handle. Mostly. Those were small and easily evaded.
No. Brisco was pretty certain he was being followed by a little girl.
Which...okay...little girls were decidedly not Brisco's forte. Sure, when they grew up into comely young women, he usually understood how to please one, what to say, how to act around them. It was all pretty straight-forward, if you used a little common sense, but whenever he tried to tutor some uncouth acquaintances of his on how to talk to a lady, somehow a lot of his schooling never quite stuck. Then you had dunkings in water troughs or spittoons emptied on heads or drinks splashed on faces (rarest of them all because who'd want to waste a drink?). And then the louts turned around and blamed Brisco.
Even if it wasn't ever his fault, just because he tried to do the impossible.
Brisco let out a deep sigh as he approached his quarters. He had a notion to write up another one of his "coming thing" journal entries (about those mechanical rats) and had half it already written out in his head as the door swooshed aside, welcoming him back. He wasn't even that tired, to tell the truth, so he wasn't sure what compelled him to check on his bed.
And the little-girl-sized lump settled on top of it.
He frowned, readying himself to let out a torrent of accusations before he corralled all of that in. Heck, he didn't know how she was gonna react once he talked to her directly. So instead of yelling in his best "I'm angry" voice, he cleared his throat theatrically, making the noise into his loose fist so the sound would carry.
And not by those things scurrying around the station either. Those things, the 'ratborg', he could handle. Mostly. Those were small and easily evaded.
No. Brisco was pretty certain he was being followed by a little girl.
Which...okay...little girls were decidedly not Brisco's forte. Sure, when they grew up into comely young women, he usually understood how to please one, what to say, how to act around them. It was all pretty straight-forward, if you used a little common sense, but whenever he tried to tutor some uncouth acquaintances of his on how to talk to a lady, somehow a lot of his schooling never quite stuck. Then you had dunkings in water troughs or spittoons emptied on heads or drinks splashed on faces (rarest of them all because who'd want to waste a drink?). And then the louts turned around and blamed Brisco.
Even if it wasn't ever his fault, just because he tried to do the impossible.
Brisco let out a deep sigh as he approached his quarters. He had a notion to write up another one of his "coming thing" journal entries (about those mechanical rats) and had half it already written out in his head as the door swooshed aside, welcoming him back. He wasn't even that tired, to tell the truth, so he wasn't sure what compelled him to check on his bed.
And the little-girl-sized lump settled on top of it.
He frowned, readying himself to let out a torrent of accusations before he corralled all of that in. Heck, he didn't know how she was gonna react once he talked to her directly. So instead of yelling in his best "I'm angry" voice, he cleared his throat theatrically, making the noise into his loose fist so the sound would carry.
no subject
Sleeping with the rats was a last resort. If there were people, it was better.
no subject
"Look, uh..." He awkwardly scratched at the back of his head. "You, uh, you can have that bed. I can take the couch. Or that chair. Or even the floor. And I don't want you to be lonely."
There, he said it. And he'd say it again if he had to.
no subject
It was even better if he knew she was there rather than just hiding under the bed.
(g'night)