What a mess.
His heart was still racing, outpacing even his mind; halfway back to the workshop he had to stop. The amount of adrenaline in his system was making him feel sick, and combined with the residual anger it formed a potent and uncomfortable mixture. Rory put his hands behind his head and tilted his face to the sky, breathing deeply.
It was not the fox's fault. It was not Vaya's fault. He had known this would happen, sooner or later, and perhaps sooner was better. It had just been a matter of time, and like the idiot he was, he had put off trying to find solutions. Life had been so overwhelming recently... Rory held the cold air in his lungs.
If the fox was truly his friend, they'd figure something out.
After a good many seconds, Rory let his breath out again. Vaya was still making unhappy noises in the shed, but he didn't think she'd be able to get out, at least. And he felt less messy, more centered, the irrational flames of anger mere coals again. He didn't like it when he got like this, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it now.
The snow crunched under his boots again as he finally made it to the open workshop door. The white fox was curled up on his chair, something blue and gray nested against it, and as Rory stopped in the doorway it greeted him with a whine and a lowered head. Rory sighed and leaned against the door frame for a moment, his face troubled. He hadn't quite managed to leave his worries out in the snow, his mind still—rapidly and unproductively—going through scenarios in how he could possibly try to get the dogs to accept the white fox.
After a couple of seconds he sighed again and rapped his knuckles against the wall, before stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He walked over to the chair and dropped down into a crouch, offering his hand for the fox to sniff, and then, if allowed, uncurling his fingers to offer it the customary greeting jaw-scratch. "It's not your fault," he told his fox friend gently. "That was bound to happen sooner or later."
Then he straightened up and half-sat on the edge of his desk, picking up the bracelet again and absentmindedly studying it. It seemed like he'd managed to keep from denting it with the bevel tool, which was relieving. Vaguely, he used it to gesture towards the bundle of fur—and feathers?—nestled against the fox, seeing as it was decidedly off-hue for him. "Who's your friend?" he asked, still sounding a little subdued.
His heart was still racing, outpacing even his mind; halfway back to the workshop he had to stop. The amount of adrenaline in his system was making him feel sick, and combined with the residual anger it formed a potent and uncomfortable mixture. Rory put his hands behind his head and tilted his face to the sky, breathing deeply.
It was not the fox's fault. It was not Vaya's fault. He had known this would happen, sooner or later, and perhaps sooner was better. It had just been a matter of time, and like the idiot he was, he had put off trying to find solutions. Life had been so overwhelming recently... Rory held the cold air in his lungs.
If the fox was truly his friend, they'd figure something out.
After a good many seconds, Rory let his breath out again. Vaya was still making unhappy noises in the shed, but he didn't think she'd be able to get out, at least. And he felt less messy, more centered, the irrational flames of anger mere coals again. He didn't like it when he got like this, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it now.
The snow crunched under his boots again as he finally made it to the open workshop door. The white fox was curled up on his chair, something blue and gray nested against it, and as Rory stopped in the doorway it greeted him with a whine and a lowered head. Rory sighed and leaned against the door frame for a moment, his face troubled. He hadn't quite managed to leave his worries out in the snow, his mind still—rapidly and unproductively—going through scenarios in how he could possibly try to get the dogs to accept the white fox.
After a couple of seconds he sighed again and rapped his knuckles against the wall, before stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He walked over to the chair and dropped down into a crouch, offering his hand for the fox to sniff, and then, if allowed, uncurling his fingers to offer it the customary greeting jaw-scratch. "It's not your fault," he told his fox friend gently. "That was bound to happen sooner or later."
Then he straightened up and half-sat on the edge of his desk, picking up the bracelet again and absentmindedly studying it. It seemed like he'd managed to keep from denting it with the bevel tool, which was relieving. Vaguely, he used it to gesture towards the bundle of fur—and feathers?—nestled against the fox, seeing as it was decidedly off-hue for him. "Who's your friend?" he asked, still sounding a little subdued.
