sixwordstories | (no subject)

[No. No, he doesn't, but neither does he want her to get hurt on his account either. He keeps his eyes firmly on the tabletop, running his finger over a chip on the edge.] I... I don't want to see your hurt.

But... If you're willing, I would prefer it if you'd stay. At least for a little while longer. You'd be most welcome, in fact. [It isn't really very hard to see how lonely he is, not when the evidence is all around her. All over the walls are hours, even days of works, where he's been left to his own devices with nothing but his thoughts to occupy him.]

I won't go off anywhere else, so I can get into trouble. And if anyone comes here...well, there are plenty of places for me to hide. I'm small.

I'd like to stay. I mean, I could even stay the night. Your handkerchief...well with it folded in enough layers it'll be the perfect little bed, and all. Are those your stories?

I'm sure we could arrange something better. [He responds by straightening out of the chair, giving the pages littering the walls a brief glance, almost as though he's just remembered about them.] Oh. Yes, some of them. Works in progress, you might say.

[Not just pages of stories, mind you. There're whole pages of notes, ideas, potential characters, unfinished dialog, a complete visual mish-mash of his thought process. In fact, he doubts anyone else could make sense of it all.]

Oh, no I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble. I'm sure it'd do fine. You should walk me through some of them.

Please, it will be about as much trouble as making a cup of tea. [He stands, rubbing the back of his head, the other hand on his hip.] Well, it's difficult to know where to start.

[He moves closer to the wall, indicating a particular page.] Here, you see, is the middle of the twelfth chapter of a medical drama. While over here -- [He steps over to the right, turning back to her.] Are my notes for an Elizabethan play. Still in production, I'm afraid. Casting is a nightmare.

Ah, well I suppose it's only fair that you should have to go through it, then. That's...huh. You think a lot, huh? Well~ if you ever want to put on Thumbalina I'll star for you.

It's... difficult to stop, sometimes. [He smiles down at her at that, shrugging noncomittally.] Or we could fashion you with a pair of wings. You did say you liked to fly.

And you channel it, your thoughts, into writing, or do you have other outlets? I went as Tinkerbell once for Halloween.

As much as I enjoy other mediums, I haven't even a modicum of talent for them. Anyway, that's quite enough about me -- [He sits himself back down, resting his chin on his palm.] Especially when I know next to nothing about you.

I'll have to try to get you to show me more, eventually. Ask away.

Alright. [To spare her neck any further discomfort, he leans forward to cross his arm on the table, resting his chin on top of them.] Do you have a family?

I've only ever really known my Dad. I had a Mom, obviously, but she left when I was five, so... I grew up with my dad, and the church. Which in retrospect is lame. Am I allowed to ask you the same, or are we only doing me right now?

[Raises an eyebrow.] 'Lame'? I'm not sure I follow...

[He sighs thoughtfully, eyes on some point over her head as he tries to piece his memories together.] There isn't really all that much to say. I've never had any desire to know who my father was and my mother, I think... I remember her hair. How it smelled.

[Shrugs, look back to her.] I've fended for myself from a young age, I don't really remember having a family, per se.

Not...well. A lot of people think it's weird. Lame. The opposite of cool or hip.

That's...a nice memory to have though. I don't remember mine at all. I'm not sure I want to, either.

I think you've turned out right, though, despite it.

Next question.