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

[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.”

[deadboywalking]

"A supermoose, then." Will says it like this is a thing. Like everyone knows about the supermoose, that grow big and broad in Canada, up near the Arctic Circle. "Supermoose versus bear truck." He's recovering from his quick reversion into whatever that was, a relic of something he doesn't like to acknowledge. Will isn't old enough or emotionally mature enough to fully compartmentalize his reactions, and there's been too much in the last twelve-and-some years for him to react to. Even worse, he doesn't seem to realize what sorts of buttons he pushes, tiny and nervous and wide-eyed and curious. Someone's going to want to put him in their pocket and feel him on cake crumbs at this rate.

Fortunately it's a universal kid truth that having An Adult get down to an eye level is one of the most reassuring things that can be done. The world isn't made for the small, so any adjustment is heartily appreciated. Will's back to that genuine, bright grin, reaching out to shake Sam's hand, scrunching his nose up like he expects the ink to -- tickle, maybe. "Sorry for dropping, um...all these." The change is put back on the table, and Will stands and, bless him, braces his feet to help her up.

"Well, and then what?" This is a train of logic he's following all the way to the station, Sam.

[10_20_15_5_50]

“Oh, well, in that case my money's on supermoose. All Beartruck can do to Supermoose is try to ram it, or try to crisp it with a flame that's meant to be purely decorative. Supermoose---” now, apparently, a proper noun “---would have had worse butting heads with others of its kind. Like, okay, if a regular moose can do a number on a car and its driver comparable to another car? Supermoose can definitely give as good as it gets from a monster truck. Plus, the bear driving it is probably not buckled up, and its natural weapons won't do it any good while it's driving... or trapped inside the truck because the doors are too dented for it to open. A winnah izzz Supermoose!” Sam lowered her voice for her announcer imitation, unwilling to wake Will's mom. The lady looked like she needed the rest, and there were few things more frustrating than managing to sleep somewhere uncomfortable on account of being exhausted, and waking still tired... but not quite tired enough to get to sleep again.

Careful not to pull too much, Sam accepted the hand up, charmed anew by the human aspen helping her. (Could this kid have come from some woods? It seemed strangely plausible; maybe the woman he was with had left a basket of bread and cheese and baubles somewhere past a tree with leaves like hands and a pit which smelled of lilac.) She stepped back and settled onto her seat, smiling a little catlike smile.

“You read Ray Bradbury?”

[deadboywalking]

There's a very sage nod, and it's safe to assume that Will's ever-present spiral-bound notebook is going to get some intricate doodles of Beartruck and Supermoose locked in a grim battle. "That's what I thought. Besides, bears can't drive," Will adds, hopping back onto his seat (and he needs to hop, get a little bit of air to even settle on the seat, bitty thing). "Probably run into a tree before the moose even got there." Oh, because now they're operating by the laws of logic.

The question makes him wrinkle his nose again, which seems to be his reflexive reaction to confusing things. "I'm twelve." That seems to be enough of an answer -- though there's logic behind it, because most of the Important Books come in high school, not middle school. But, after a moment, hesitantly (because boys don't do things like stay inside and read, that's for sissies and girls): "He...wrote the book about burning stuff, right? Are you going to...catch on fire once you have one big tattoo?" Now he just looks alarmed.

[10_20_15_5_50]

Although she'd been looking back towards the coffee machine (and seriously considering a second cup) Sam turned back to Will at his so-serious assertion, one eyebrow up. “Are you sure? Didn't they have bears on pedal bikes in old-school circuses? If something's got the dexterity to handle handlebars and pedals, it can probably handle a steering wheel, manage gas and breaking.” As ridiculous as the premise might've been, it deserved a thin veneer of plausibility---if nothing else, for the fun of it.

'So?' would've been out of her mouth in the moment before Will spoke again, but she saw the curiousity spreading again in his aura, saw it overtake his uncertainty, and brightened a bit as he continued. “Yeah, that's right, and nah, nah; I don't even sunburn easy, despite being fairly fair. He wrote a bunch of short stories, too, you know. I inhaled them at your age. Some are kinda macabre... but others are pretty optimistic. Anyway, read enough Bradbury and you'll have an answer. Til then, don't worry. I'm not gonna burn---unless someone shoves me into an MRI. Which is unlikely.”

[deadboywalking]

"Well, yeah, but those were trained bears," Will reasons, folding his hands in his lap, now that he's arranged the coins on the table to his liking. "They had practice. If you just put a bear in a truck, it's not gonna know what to do. It's gonna just...chew on the wheel or something." Soon they're going to be discussing the finer points of higher education for bears.

This seems suspiciously like homework of some kind, and Will's eyes narrow for a moment in skepticism. But he does like short stories too, and he likes reading and Sam doesn't seem like she's trying to trick him into reading something dumb. "Which ones are the gross ones?" He knows what macabre means, look at him.

Then, sitting up a little straighter, a bit of that fear creeping back into his expression: "MRI's don't make you burn. Right?" That's the next step, now that EKG has failed most of the doctors. The idea of being inside a big metal tube, taking pictures of his brain is already terrifying.

[10_20_15_5_50]

“Yeah, but how is Beartruck even going to be a thing unless the bear part of Beartruck has at least got a learner's?” Unable to believe she managed to ask that question with even a partial poker face intact, Sam fought hard to maintain her composure. “Someone would've had to go 'hey, could we teach a bear to drive?' and since you know what people are like, you know the bear in question would be getting coached in parallel parking before someone said 'we could, but should we?'”

Will's skeptical look met the same smile Sam wore before, and she shrugged. “'Mars Is Heaven,' 'The Jar,' 'The Skeleton,' and a couple of others I can't remember the titles of off the top of my head. 'Uncle Einar' is a good one, and 'There Was an Old Woman,' and 'The Haunting of the New.' Granted, those aren't the stories you'll find the answer in, but they're worth reading anyway. Oh, and 'The Man Upstairs!' That one's kind of gross and really, really good.” Just recalling it made her want to reread it.

Sam held both hands up in a wordless 'whoa, no,' stood and stretched. “MRI's don't make you burn. They only might if you have a tattoo, especially if the ink is red... or black. See, those colours can have iron in them, and that'll react like a fork in a microwave. Not that dramatic, since the iron particles are so small, but... it wouldn't be fun for me. Probably only a portion of my tattoos have the ink with iron, but I wouldn't know which, and I'm not keen to learn like that. Though, it's not all bad.” She shouldered her bag again, a little amused.

“Some tattoo inks use the same industrial-strength pigments used in automotive paint, which I think is kinda cool.”

[deadboywalking]

"Just a passing bear. Like, it saw the truck and got inside. Maybe there was food inside." Will gives her a very patient look, shifting to cross his legs and fold his hands in his lap, the picture of rational innocence. "Who's dumb enough to think that they should get inside a small space with a bear? Bears eat people."

Then he reaches out, like he's going to grab his backpack and pull out the notebook to start writing all this down -- the stories and the stuff about iron particles inside tattoo ink because it's gross and it's cool and he's fascinated. And then Sam stands and something closes down in his expression. "Do you have to go?"

[10_20_15_5_50]

“Bear-whisperer, maybe?” A bodybag, definitely. To be fair, the chaos mages (she'd heard of) were playing with loaded dice, but there wasn't a one who hadn't had allies, enemies, and innocent bystanders scream you fuckin' idiot, you're gonna get yourself killed on multiple occasions. “But even if it's a 'just a passing bear,' there's no guarantee it isn't a were-bear. Just a passing bear could be any variety. 'Were' is one.”

Sam shook her head. “Not exactly, not yet, but I'm waiting on my ride, so I'm gonna go along the window to see if I can spot him. If he isn't here, I'm gonna grab another coffee and come back. Heck, if he is here, I'll at least stop by and say bye because you've made waiting a lot less boring. I'm just carrying my crap off because... well, y'know.” She spread her hands.

“Not much worth stealing, and even if there were I'd trust you to watch it, but there's that whole airport thing. Ditch it, and there'll probably be 'would the owner of these horrible hobo pants please come to the security counter...' across the intercom.”

[deadboywalking]

"...were-bears." Judging by how Will's eyebrows arch up to hide under those shaggy bangs of his, he's never even considered this as a possibility before. Give him a moment to go through all the other possibilities of were out there. Were-jaguars? Were-penguins? Were-werewolves?

It's silly, because stranger danger and everything, but Will's tense shoulders relax a little at the knowledge that Sam isn't actively trying to get away from him. He worries. He worries about strangers and family members and friends alike. Sometimes he just gets sick of worrying. But he nods placidly, sitting back in his seat, the picture of patience.

"Okay." Then, after a pause, shyly earnest: "I don't think your pants are horrible."