[It would have been helpful to see past that blank stretch in his head. To open the door and get a whiff of fecal decay and squeaking rats and the dim light of a match to guide the way.
But Lord All Mighty, is he ever relieved to see those stacks of curios and the dynamic duettists again.
The division of the eras lives boldly here. Richie's gaze skips over the relics (though he does a double take at the scads of bones and warped, leathery things alongside them — he gives Byerly a curious look but decides to say nothing) and ties onto the future tech. The gun had been one thing, but these were more in line with the tales the man had been spinning of his absurd time. There's a projector that put Princess Leia's desperate plea to shame, but whose subject is forced into humiliations comely Carrie Fisher never faced.
More than anything, however?]
Awww, would you look at those titchy lil' squirts?
[The kids enamor him instantly. Richie's crouched down on sight and grins wide next to the shrunken Vorrutyers. He can't help it. They look both precious and like they'd raise a good bit of hell if given half the chance. Byerly's the one messing with the poor sucker's holographic waistline after all, and the baby girl has a mouth on her. Richie laughs.]
Oh, I like her. Hope the teach is commending her for making strides in vocabulary. What is she, nine? That's good chucks right there.
[He cants his head up to the man, grateful to see no stiffness. That the airy me-no-care tone comes off as sincere. Even if there's inauspicious tidings in the kids' conversation. Richie glances over to the attic exit, losing some of the grin. The doorknob doesn't jiggle while he's looking.]
Is it our favorite boy waiting downstairs? Future council-hopeful Ricky Vor-fingersnap. [He halts, rewinds. Continues more tactfully, shooting a worrisome look to the gawky prepubescent trying to smile through his dread.] That's not today, is it?
no subject
But Lord All Mighty, is he ever relieved to see those stacks of curios and the dynamic duettists again.
The division of the eras lives boldly here. Richie's gaze skips over the relics (though he does a double take at the scads of bones and warped, leathery things alongside them — he gives Byerly a curious look but decides to say nothing) and ties onto the future tech. The gun had been one thing, but these were more in line with the tales the man had been spinning of his absurd time. There's a projector that put Princess Leia's desperate plea to shame, but whose subject is forced into humiliations comely Carrie Fisher never faced.
More than anything, however?]
Awww, would you look at those titchy lil' squirts?
[The kids enamor him instantly. Richie's crouched down on sight and grins wide next to the shrunken Vorrutyers. He can't help it. They look both precious and like they'd raise a good bit of hell if given half the chance. Byerly's the one messing with the poor sucker's holographic waistline after all, and the baby girl has a mouth on her. Richie laughs.]
Oh, I like her. Hope the teach is commending her for making strides in vocabulary. What is she, nine? That's good chucks right there.
[He cants his head up to the man, grateful to see no stiffness. That the airy me-no-care tone comes off as sincere. Even if there's inauspicious tidings in the kids' conversation. Richie glances over to the attic exit, losing some of the grin. The doorknob doesn't jiggle while he's looking.]
Is it our favorite boy waiting downstairs? Future council-hopeful Ricky Vor-fingersnap. [He halts, rewinds. Continues more tactfully, shooting a worrisome look to the gawky prepubescent trying to smile through his dread.] That's not today, is it?