for @10_20_15_5_50

[deadboywalking]

It was supposed to help.

They'd sold the Pinto for this -- Joyce white-knuckled and tight-lipped at the car dealership, trying to get the most money possible, because tickets from Indianapolis to Sacramento weren't cheap, even if, at 12, Will could still get a child's seat. They'd spent all this money, because Joyce had heard from a doctor who'd heard from a nurse from an orderly from another nurse that this guy in California was supposed to be the best.

But hundreds of dollars and an exhausting all-night flight later, they had nothing to show for it. The doctor had done all the same tests, EKG and blood tests, so many that Will felt shaky and dizzy afterwards. He'd asked a thousand questions and Will had talked until his throat was sore about the episodes, about the things he could see, about the place he sometimes went. And all the doctor had been able to say was, "Probably PTSD. You said he was lost in the woods for a week?"

She wasn't talking, but Will could tell his mother was starting to lose hope. She had that blank, faraway look in her eyes, she kept spacing out and didn't seem to hear Will when he spoke. Even worse, she'd missed the turn to get to the airport, so they'd missed their flight and had to rebook for another one, early in the morning.

So there they were, sitting in the Sacramento airport at three in the morning, waiting for their flight to begin boarding. Joyce had a now-stone-cold cup of coffee in front of her, untouched, and she kept nodding off where she sat. Will was on the other side of their luggage, just as exhausted, but unable to let himself sleep.

Instead he glanced down at where his long sleeves rode up, displaying the numerous bandages on his lower arms. It had taken the nurse multiple tries to find a vein for the IV, or to draw from, and Will sort of felt like one big pincushion. He absently tugged at the sleeves, looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. People liked to assume, after all.

Comments

[10_20_15_5_50]

Sam still had two and a half hours to kill.

She'd made it off the plane at 1:08, collected her luggage at 1:50 (somehow coming to the carousel long before it could, despite being the last from her flight to reach the crowd at luggage claim) and now would wait, periodically pacing the length of the windows along one wall to look out over the parking lot. Her limp wasn't as bad as it could've been, since she'd had time to walk some the stiffness from sitting off, but it was still showing more than it might've, because she was tired; traveling in the armpit of the night (if not a bad night) did that to a body. It was worth it, though, especially for a quick-turn trip---she'd scheduled it so as to avoid missing any work, she was bound to get something good out of the bartering she was down to do, and, with a little luck, she'd have the chance to catch up with a friend or two.

S M F I I A M T O V N X X X A M I F U C A N she'd said---sent. If nothing came of that message, she supposed she'd scrap some of her plans, and start fresh at six. How bad could it be, to begin with a blank slate when the day was brand new? And that was the worst-case scenario, not when but only if it seemed she should give up on any answer. Meanwhile... she would wait.

And wait. And wait. She still had two and a half hours to kill, and even a large airport was pretty dull at this hour. That would've been why the boy---one of few people still present, and one of just two near where she'd stopped to sit---caught her eye. It wasn't his fidgety fussing with his sleeves, or the bandages on his arms (though she noticed those in the same second, the way she'd notice bruise, birthmark, scar, stitch, acne, ink anything crossing bare skin) but the flicker of wondering. The airport was almost empty, and really only an enormous waiting room; what was there to wonder about?

Oh.

In wondering that, Sam had answered her own question. Other people, of course. She smiled a little at herself, at wondering what the kid was wondering, and opted to wave when his eyes fell on her. It wasn't much, just a flick of her annotated hand, but it was at least meant to be an amiable acknowledgement: Salut. Same boat!

[deadboywalking]

It's an era of growing caution about stranger danger, but just barely. Will knows to avoid unfamiliar adults purely on his own experience and instincts, rather than because of any mass-produced elementary school curriculum. By the same token, his own experience has taught him that dangerous people aren't always unfamiliar (or even people) -- sometimes they're part of your blood family. Succinctly: the world is full of dangerous things, especially when you're twelve and tired and vulnerable.

Still, Will has his instincts too. The same ones that had screamed at him that November night last year, saying that the thing he'd seen was bad, the same ones that had kept him alive for days and days in a place that was actively trying to kill him. The same ones that don't ping with anything besides mild embarrassment at having been caught staring by the stranger. So he jumps a little, ducks his head, then awkwardly waves back. He has manners, see?

[10_20_15_5_50]

The staring is something Sam doesn't mind. For one thing, she's used to people staring---and she sort of expects it. It's one consequence of what she's done to herself, and no surprise. (Now and then, someone standing at a distance won't just stare but squint at her, trying to tell if it's a lace glove or what on her right hand; the revelation that it's 'or what' has prompted a range of reactions.) For another thing, she knows not staring is, at times, difficult. It's gotten easier over the years, but that's mostly because she's settled into the strategy of saying to herself 'I'm seeing something. Not sure what, but it sure is something,' before crossing the street and continuing on.

Seeing nothing now, save one slightly embarrassed little boy, Sam shouldered her duffel bag and stood to step nearer. She kept her voice soft, not wanting to disturb any fellow travelers---even if the only one near enough to be disturbed was the kid's mom---or seem at all imposing.

“Sorry to bug you, kiddo, but where'd that coffee come from?” She indicated the cold cardboard cup with a tilt of her head, hopeful. All the coffee shops she'd seen coming this way were closed, locked down with their lights dimmed.... but maybe she'd missed one, or there was a vending machine kept in some out-of-the-way corner?

[deadboywalking]

The closer she gets, the more Sam -- more than anyone else, probably -- might be able to pick up on something off about this particular embarrassed kiddo. He's very quiet for a boy his age (between eleven and twenty-three, most boys lose the ability to sit still and shut their mouths, after all), and he's sitting very straight and tall, even in the uncomfortable airport seats. But Sam isn't an ordinary woman, so she can probably see that Will isn't an ordinary boy. There's an air of other clinging to him, like he's slogged through a bog made of otherworldly goo and come back with it coating his skin. This is a child who's seen things, touched things, breathed in and drank of and slept in places most folks don't even believe in.

Will doesn't have any such perception, only that Sam doesn't make him want to bolt and hide, and that's a rare thing these days. So instead of stammering and shrugging, he manages a hesitant, tiny smile at the question and points over at the vending machine. It's an ancient thing, tucked over by the bathrooms, sort of behind a soda machine, like the airport is embarrassed about it.

"You, um...you've gotta push the cup button twice, otherwise it'll just...pour the coffee on the floor," Will adds hesitantly, folding his hands back in his lap. "Kinda...not very good."

[10_20_15_5_50]

For some reason, that something-off is even more apparent once the boy starts speaking. It has nothing to do with the way he speaks, but maybe in doing something (even something so simple as answering) he's being and not only... abiding. It would make as much sense as anything, Sam supposed, even as she eyed his aura---taking care not to be too obvious about it. It was a little like light pollution, the way it would show up on snow clouds, and a little like the residue crayons left on the inside of the box they came in; 'a little,' she'd say, but still enough so it seemed her hand would come away tacky, if she reached out to touch. That might not have made much sense... but she couldn't shake the impression. It wasn't inconsequential, since it stirred her curiosity, but it didn't matter too too much; that the boy answered mattered more. The small, unsure smile that spread across his face prompted a warm one from Sam, and the words which came with it were met with a nod.

“Gotcha. Thank you.”

Without further ado, the skin-witch turned and made for the machine.

She was back a few minutes later, and came a little closer than before, if only long enough to set a little stack of coins on the seat beside Will's before stepping back and offering an explanation. “You saved me the cost of a second cup of coffee, and from getting my shoes splashed, so that's for a chocolate bar or whatever. I'd be out about as much if you hadn't told me to hit the cup button two times.” Smiling again, she shrugged.

[deadboywalking]

Will settles back in his seat, shifting until he can cross his legs (somewhat uncomfortably) underneath himself and look down at the backs of his hands, the only visible bandaids, from the IV needles. With the resigned air of a child settling in to being bored, he absently pulls at a loose thread in his sleeve, rolls it up to look at more needle marks, rolls it back down -- and startles about a full six inches in the air when Sam suddenly is right there. He hadn't been paying attention. Stupid, stupid.

The little pile of coins gets an honestly comical double take. "I-I...I mean you don't...have to, I...what's wrong with that one?" Curiosity and confusion about the single loonie that's slipped in with the quarters has Will interrupting his own attempt at politeness. Good job, kiddo.

[10_20_15_5_50]

Even if she weren't a genuinely friendly person, or genuinely appreciative of his advice, Sam would've been smiling at the boy by now---likely with the same touch of sympathy. She hadn't meant to startle him, but it had been a long, long time since she'd last managed to sneak up on someone without actually trying to, and she couldn't help but find it kind of funny. Five minutes into the future, the question put to her would be found funny, too; in the present, it earned Will a brief bemused look.

“Oh.” It clicked, and Sam bobbed a shoulder before setting her bag and coffee down on the seat beside the seat beside Will's. Despite the thinness of the hoodie she wore---open over a tee proclaiming 'WELL, I'M HERE NOW'---she was glad for the opportunity to get it off, growing overwarm having her hot coffee with it on in summery Sacremento. “Nothing, except that you can't spend it stateside.”

[deadboywalking]

Will looks over at the bag and coffee for a moment, a quick, calculating look. He probably would've clammed up and curled in on himself if the woman had actually sat down, but this is fine. Not too close. He glances quickly at Joyce, making sure she's still asleep, her cheek pillowed on folded arms, then he looks back at the coins.

"Stateside?" A pause, and Will's a sharp little cookie, he can put together context clues. "These are from Canada?"

[10_20_15_5_50]

Sitting down would've been counter-productive, anyway. Standing, Sam could tie the hoodie around her waist and indulge in some serious stretching; one hand around the other's wrist, both arms rebar-rigid and angled up until something in an elbow made a muffled pop. (Since she still faced his seat, Will would see that even the palm of her right hand had been tattooed.) She sighed in relief, picked up her coffee, and judged it cool enough to start sipping... but remained standing where she was, making no move to sit. She'd seen the glance Will gave her things, and knew it for the assessment it was; in his position, she would've been appraising anyone who approached just as carefully.

“They are. So'm I, for that matter. What about you? American, I'm assuming?” Assuming was generally a bad thing, but this assumption had to be harmless enough; it came couched as a gentle question. “I can at least tell you the quarters'll work fine in your vending machines; yours don't give ours any issues.”

[deadboywalking]

Part of Will wants to ask to see the tattoo's closer, amazed that someone has a hand steady enough to make those neat lines and intricate music notes without messing up. His own art has gotten better and better over the years, but it's still unmistakably a child's art. But he knows better, reaching out instead to pick up a couple of the coins and look them over thoughtfully, like he's expecting them to be different.

"Oh. I've never been to Canada." As if that wasn't obvious based on his...everything. He practically has a neon sign over his head that says "small town kid". Still he explains, shyly: "Yeah. Indiana. It's pretty far away." He knows better than to be more specific.

Then Will shifts, standing carefully, still only holding a couple of the quarters -- manners keep him from taking them all. "Thank you. I'll, um...I'll give them a try."

[10_20_15_5_50]

“I hope that if that changes, you get to go to one of the fun parts. Like British Columbia.” The adept may have visited the province only once, years ago, but she'd come away without a single bad thing to say about it. She watched Will inspect the money, wondering if he'd seen the queen/caribou design before, and tested her coffee. It had cooled enough she could just down it, so she did, stifling a small burp immediately after. “Other side of the country, right? Most of the way across?”

Anything else she might have asked was set aside as she saw the coins left on the seat; the only thing to do was step back, shaking her head.

“Do that, but dude. Even if you only try whichever, take 'em all.”

[deadboywalking]

"Which one's that?" Will wasn't very good at geography, okay. He preferred to draw his own maps, where if he messed up one of the lines, nobody knew, because he'd made it up himself. Still, he has a vague idea of Canada, broken into blocks above various portions of the USA, so "the one above California/Texas/New York" would suffice. Sam's question gets a nod, and Will holding his hands apart to signify the length of the country. "About right here, yeah," he says, gesturing to a spot about 2/3rds of the way across the distance.

He's on alert the minute she starts shaking her head, and if Sam's paying attention to his aura/mood/anything, the anxiety spikes like a Richter scale in an earthquake. Even when she speaks and clarifies, the tension stays. "Are you sure? It's...there's a lot." There's not, not really, but even at twelve Will has the money-awareness of someone raised in poverty. Any amount of money is a lot.

[10_20_15_5_50]

“Temperate chunk of the west coast. If you went north from where we are right now, straight line, you'd be in BC when you crossed the border. If you kept going north, still in that straight line, you'd hit the Yukon, and if you took a right right then and traveled... oh, a day and a night? You'd not only be in the Northwest Territories, but my hometown: Yellowknife.” Sam said the name with some affection, still attached to the city. She supposed she always would be, no matter how far from it she moved; every summer, every winter, she somehow managed to be back. “No igloos, but we do have a snow castle every year.”

A Snow King, too, but she didn't want to bore the boy by delving into a Hinterlands Who's Who of far-away eccentrics.

“I--” didn't expect you to be so nervy, Christ, kid “'m sure, yeah.” She held her free hand up in assurance. “It's not so bad when you're the one driving and can stop, detour, whatever, whenever, but when traveling isn't fun, it isn't fun at all. I'm thinking if you can treat yourself to a treat or two, it'll suck a little less, cause hey. I've been in your shoes before.”

[deadboywalking]

Will nods thoughtfully, still holding his hands apart in a vague approximation of the United States. At the woman's directions, he glances up, then to the right, then lowers his hands, suddenly awkward. "Way up there?" He remembers there's a lot of water, lots of lakes. Yellowknife, though, that sounds like something from a book. Or a campaign. Will debates saying this for about half a second, then elects to keep his mouth shut -- people don't like hearing him chatter, comes the mental reminder, the one that's been there since early childhood (the one that sounds like Lonnie Byers).

Still, he can't resist repeating, sitting up a little straighter in interest: "Snow castle? Like, a big one?" Judging by this reaction, Will would definitely be into the aforementioned Who's Who.

At Sam's repeated reassurances, Will finally scoops the rest of the change off of the chair, cradling it in his palms. He's got a brave face on, has had it since they left Indiana, but it flickers a little now. He hates this. He hates being miles away from home, poked and prodded and quizzed for hours, not knowing what the right thing to say or do is to make it all stop. He hates it and he's trying so hard to pretend he doesn't.

"It's not too bad," Will says finally, swaying a little in his seat, a nervous habit. He can't stay still when he lies, he fidgets, he shifts back and forth. With his hands curled around the money, the multiple puncture wounds from IV sites are easier to see, and he wonders wildly if Sam's been in those particular shoes. Instead he says, again: "It's not bad."

[10_20_15_5_50]

“Way up there. It's not the last settlement, but it's the last city going up through the Territories.” Without living many other places---Edmonton for school, Porcupine River most recently, Montreal for a few weeks---Sam had had the time to get used to 'what, really?' and its spiritual siblings. The uncertainty that came off Will a moment after (though it barely lasted a moment more) caught her eye, but she didn't show she'd noticed, glad to answer his question about the castle instead. “Yes and yes. They build it bigger every year, and it's big enough that we use it for concerts and plays and things. Takes about two months to build, and the same guy's been in charge---at least, of its construction---since it started. Claims he came to be when someone stuck a magic potato onto a snowman's face instead of a carrot. Bit iffy, that, but the Snow King's someone you roll with... literally. Castle's gotta have guards, right? Imagine a snowman with a base it takes two or three people to push, and a middle it takes two more to lift.”

She probably wouldn't've said as much, if not for the kid's obvious interest. The snow castle was months and hundreds of miles away from California and the air-conditioned airport they stood in, but it would at least be something to daydream about.

“Not bad, just boring?” Since she wasn't mean enough to let her disbelief touch her tone, Sam kept the question casual. “Can I ask what has you so far from home?”

She could guess, though it wasn't much of a guess, which Will had to know; hopefully, he'd figure from her phrasing 'no,' as an answer, was alright.

[deadboywalking]

"Woah..." Will is sufficiently impressed by the idea of being the last anything. He has mental images of grim, grizzled fur trappers riding polar bears through the woods. Speaking of: "Do you ever see any bears? Or, um...moose?" He's forgotten most of his anxiety, scooting forward in his chair, eyes very wide as Sam describes the Snow Castle. "Magic...potato." There's a wild, sleep-deprived sort of giggle that Will quickly swallows. "Wow. How do they make it? The castle? Do they have to get...bulldozers and cranes and things?"

And then she asks the question, and Will's expression closes down like shuttered windows in a storm. He can't tell her "no" -- he can't tell any adult "no", it's not how he's wired, but the words catch in his throat. "Went to a doctor," he says finally, halting, watching her for the shift in expression, the immediate sympathy, the awkwardness every single adult has around a sick kid. Nobody he's met knows how to interact with him once it comes out that he's different, that there's an unknown, fragile aspect to him. They overcorrect themselves, treat him too carefully, make excuses to get away. Nobody knows how to deal with him. He'd only met this particular woman minutes before, but Will's already preparing for the crushing disappointment of driving yet another person away.

[10_20_15_5_50]

Sam would've hated to disabuse Will of that visual—-or any as hilarious, let alone flatteringly epic---despite its inaccuracies, though she'd struggle to stay straight-faced (and fail) if he described it in any detail. As it was, the kid's curiousity got her grinning. “Oh, yeah. Moose wander all over the place, so there's no telling when or where you'll see one, but you're bound to see one somewhere without waiting too too long. Caribou---and the bears---you're most likely to see in the Barrenlands, though. That's an area east of Yellowknife, so if you took that big right-angle route we were talking about to get to there from here, you'd pass through it. It's grizzly bears out there, though. Polar bears are more coastal. I'm sorry; I hope that doesn't disappoint.” Her grin shrank into a somewhat apologetic smile, and she shrugged.

“Magic potato is what he says, and with a lot of hard work. No cranes, though. One little 'dozer, wooden frames for leveling walls, lots of pouring and packing, some of those big two-man saws, chainsaws.... though the wooden frames are weirdest to see. The first time I saw them, I was like 'what cheat is this?' but they're never incorporated into the building, just the building process.” Sam held up her hands, as if they were on opposite sides of a box. “They're just to make the walls straight. They get set up, wall-width apart, and then filled in with snow that's packed down and packed down and packed down, and they've got bracers to ensure they stay standing straight. You see someone block a door with a chair in a movie? It's like that. They don't build all the walls by packing, though. The two-man saws are for cutting snow bricks, taller than you and maybe a bit thicker than that chair-seat.”

That was the short and long of her answer; Will's was loud, writ large before the first word. Sam braced... and then it was out. Some sympathy crossed her face, but the awkwardness Will expected never came; there was something speculative, instead, and Sam took a second to look his hands over again before she spoke.

“Calisse, kiddo. I think you mighta been stuck more times than me---at least, like in the last three weeks.” She was sure to smile again, crookedly, to show she shouldn't be taken too seriously. “When flu season comes round, you should ask for the inhaled vaccine they give people allergic to the egg in the injectable version, cut yourself some slack.”

[deadboywalking]

"Woah." Moose are about as exotic and strange and otherworldly as Will can imagine right now, sitting in a Sacramento airport. There's a definite dreamy look on his face as, ever the twelve-year-old boy, he asks reverently: "Can moose really crush cars with their feet? I read that somewhere, that they're really really dangerous." Essentially, no disappointment here, not when he can imagine moose trampling cars all over the place.

It's almost possible to see Will's mind committing all this to memory -- and indeed, later, he's going to draw out everything Sam's told him, two-man saws and wooden frames and bracers and magic potatoes and moose. For a moment he's caught up in Sam's storytelling, blissfully transported away from his current reality. It comes crashing down, of course, and Will's shoulders slump a little bit.

"Yeah. I've got bad veins." He says it flatly, like it's something he's been told multiple times. It's likely more to do with the fact that he's tiny, that he's never quite hydrated enough, that he's been stuck so many times in his arms that, though he should be used to it, he twitches when the needles come near, and the back-of-the-hand is easier. Still, the comparison makes him curious, eyes flicking over Sam's tattooed skin to see if she's anything like him. Do tattoo needles bruise like IV ones? "Does it hurt?" he ventures, not quite able to imagine being stuck on purpose. Even after months of doctors, that's still his least favorite bit.

[10_20_15_5_50]

“They are really, really dangerous. I don't know anyone who has a story about one kicking a car... but it's them charging cars you should worry about, because that's what you hear about happening, and there's enough crushing power there.” Sam shook her head slowly. Her gaze wandered across the windows, but her mind was elsewhere; she thought carefully, sifting through every incident, every anecdote she could recall. “The brother of a girl I went to school with, he had a moose butt his car while he was driving down the highway, and it dented the door in so far that both the auto shop guys and the ER staff who saw him thought he'd been in a car accident until he explained. That said, if you had a moose climbing on a car, those hooves would definitely do damage.”

She stopped, looking up at the ceiling as she tried to think of a suitably visual comparison. “It would be like a half-ton truck walking around with medium frying pans for feet. Not a lot of surface for the weight that's on it, and bucks can weigh three quarters of a ton. They don't get that big often, but a big buck can trash just about anything out. A moose hits your car, the moose walks away. Your car hits the moose, the moose still walks away.”

'Bad veins' got a bit of a face from the skin-witch, and a bit of a shrug, since that seemed like something there was little help for.... save a growth spurt. How big could blood vessels be, in such a twiggy little thing? Still, a little life returned to Will's tone with his question, and Sam was as happy to hear it as she was to answer, offer a little education/entertainment. “Yeah. Bit more or a bit less depending on where. Wanna guess what makes the difference?”

[deadboywalking]

Will's already-wide eyes are even wider now, hands resting in his lap as he leans forward, like that'll help him absorb the story quicker. "Woah... Um, if, like...if like a moose and a bear got into a fight, who would win?" He asks it very seriously, very eagerly, stumbling over the words a little. Clearly he's deeply invested in the answer. "And then what if they both got into a fight with a monster truck?"

The revelation that the tattoos hurt, while obvious, makes Will's brow furrow a little in concern. He supposes he should've known, but still, the idea of anyone hurting at all makes him visibly uncomfortable. "Uh...how close to...the bone it is?" It's a wild guess, based mostly on his own experience with blood-drawing.

[10_20_15_5_50]

“Oh, geez....” Now having little choice in the matter, Sam dropped into the nearest unoccupied seat (still separated from her new friend---which the boy was by necessity, since a person didn't discuss things like moose, bear, monster truck BATTLE ROYALE with anyone who wasn't a friend, especially at 3:33 am---by the seat the coins had been on, and the seat her bag still filled) to consider the questions very seriously. “I'm not sure if I'd bet on the bear or the moose. Prrrobably the bear, to be honest? They can run faster than the moose, which means the moose wouldn't get the distance to use its charge to great effect. And it really depends on the monster truck, but if it's the kind of monster truck people can buy tickets to ride at fairs and things? The moose and bear team.”

That little flicker of concern cued a warm smile, even as Sam waved it away. “It doesn't hurt for long. And you're right! It's a little better where there's more padding, though I was pleasantly surprised to find it's not bad along the back of the ankle... except for the way I annoyed my tattoo artist because I couldn't keep still. My feet just jittered, and I couldn't control it.”

[deadboywalking]

They've passed the threshold where Sam sitting down would make Will twitchy or uncomfortable. They passed it back after magic potato. Will frowns a little, swinging his feet back and forth, toes just barely skimming the ground. The seat isn't even that high, but he's so small. He looks much younger than he is, but his tone is one of great seriousness: "What about a bear driving a monster truck? One of the ones that shoots fire." An important distinction.

Then he wrinkles his nose, crossing his ankles in sympathy at the idea of having a needle there. Arms and wrists are bad enough. "Why'd you get one on your foot? Nobody can really even see it." Clearly he assumes the reason to have a tattoo is so it can be seen.

[10_20_15_5_50]

That's enough to prompt Sam to heave a sigh and roll her eyes, so dramatically Will has to know she's only joking, since the last thing she wants is another flare of anxiety. The one that lit in and around the little boy (because whatever his age is—-ten, eleven? he is a little boy) when she first shook her head at him was bad enough. “I can't give you an answer until you tell me what the bear driving the monster truck is up against. Moose in armour? Inquiring minds need to know, Mr.--?” Her question had been an exclamation until the last moment, when it clicked that it couldn't be completed until a blank had been filled.

“I got it on my foot because every song's gotta go somewhere, and besides; I have a plan.” A little mischief surfaces in her smile. “I'm getting tattoo after tattoo until I have one tattoo.”

[deadboywalking]

There's a quick flash of a grin that's so heartfelt that it makes Will actually look like a little kid, rather than a very serious small adult. "Just a regular moose! Can't it step on the monster truck? With it's, um, frying pan feet?" He gestures with his still-cupped hands, trying to signify huge moose feet squashing even the most ferocious of trucks, and several of the coins fly out and clatter onto the ground. There's a brief, heartbreaking second where Will freezes, eyes deer-in-the-headlights-wide as they snap first to his (still-sleeping) mother, then to Sam. His shoulders are set defensively, and it doesn't take a genius to guess what he's anticipating in response to the noise and the mess.

But it passes. Logic takes over reflex and Will is embarrassed instead of afraid. "Sorry," he mumbles, carefully pouring the handful of change onto the table, then wiggling out of his seat to pick up the scattered coins. "Um, Will. I'm Will."

Crouched on the ground, he blinks up at Sam, nose wrinkling. "And...then what?" It's the next logical question, right? When you have one big tattoo, where do you go from there?

[10_20_15_5_50]

“Only if it goes ass over teakettle and the moose tramples its undercarriage---moose are tall, yeah, but they're not climb-a-ladder-to-the-cab tall.” Venting through a pfff is the only thing that lets Sam stop herself from laughing aloud, since she's never been stoic, and the flash of fright off Will is answered with a second of shock.

Oh.

“'Sokay.” The adept's up out of her seat with that, dropping gracelessly into a crouch (bad leg to one side, at a right angle, almost) to help collect the coins. “Sam. Nice to meet you, Will.”

Since the change-gathering has them within arm's reach of each other, she offers a hand to shake; her right, ink all up to the elbow. They're probably a sight, here on their heels, money in hand like some bizarre deal's going down.

“When I have one big tattoo, I'm putting a big tattoo over it. They've got that ink that only shows up under blacklights, and I'm going to make the most of it.”