Whatever it was she wanted, he doubted he could give it to her—he was cranky and tired, a snap closer even than silence. Still he kept his breathing measured and even, folding his arms across his chest. He was very, very sure that if she had been a Natural within the barrier he would've known of her; perhaps not have met her but seen her, at least. The combination of her height (or lack thereof) with her mature face and voice, well..
A stranger she said, and, "No shit" he said, though it lacked bite. But what flavor of stranger? And what was so interesting about a dirt-stained farmer trying to put his derailed life back on track?
She said her name was Eli, and as another nickname kid, Rory thought it wasn't all of it. He bit his lip thoughtfully, and though he still looked rather foreboding and unamused, the worst of the edges were sanded off. He was just so tired, of everything, of the never ending cycle of birth and life and death and all that came with it. He sighed.
She asked for his name, or rather, if she could have it, and yes of course, she could. But he wasn't enough of an ass to nitpick so he answered the implied question, offering her his name. "Rory," but just as he thought Eli wasn't all of it, he didn't give her all of it.
She asked if he would like a hand, and he contemplated asking if she wanted to part with one of hers, because why, yes, he'd look absolutely dashing with three hands. But, no, he still wasn't in the mood for niceties and jests, so he ended up watching her with tense and tired eyes. Why on earth would a complete stranger want to help him with his planting?
"Sure," he ended up saying after a moment of contemplation, making neither heads nor tails of the girl. It sounded like defeat. His blue gaze went back to the furrows, his hands resuming their perpetual motion of picking up seeds and scattering into the earth. "Where are you from?" he asked, thinking she must be an Outlander.
A stranger she said, and, "No shit" he said, though it lacked bite. But what flavor of stranger? And what was so interesting about a dirt-stained farmer trying to put his derailed life back on track?
She said her name was Eli, and as another nickname kid, Rory thought it wasn't all of it. He bit his lip thoughtfully, and though he still looked rather foreboding and unamused, the worst of the edges were sanded off. He was just so tired, of everything, of the never ending cycle of birth and life and death and all that came with it. He sighed.
She asked for his name, or rather, if she could have it, and yes of course, she could. But he wasn't enough of an ass to nitpick so he answered the implied question, offering her his name. "Rory," but just as he thought Eli wasn't all of it, he didn't give her all of it.
She asked if he would like a hand, and he contemplated asking if she wanted to part with one of hers, because why, yes, he'd look absolutely dashing with three hands. But, no, he still wasn't in the mood for niceties and jests, so he ended up watching her with tense and tired eyes. Why on earth would a complete stranger want to help him with his planting?
"Sure," he ended up saying after a moment of contemplation, making neither heads nor tails of the girl. It sounded like defeat. His blue gaze went back to the furrows, his hands resuming their perpetual motion of picking up seeds and scattering into the earth. "Where are you from?" he asked, thinking she must be an Outlander.
