He's cowed, but baby rust's evidently not completely docile: the way he's acting, he's ten seconds from bolting, and you're not sure what's keeping him. The alcohol? Manners?
(Little thing probably thinks you'll haul him straight back if he tries, and he's right enough. No point in having made this mirthless trip if you don't haul him back in, all sound of flesh, and prove Sipara wrong once and for all.)
"There's nothing wrong with it," he says hesitantly, "just--"
If he says something else, you don't notice, because something fucking weird is happening around you. At first, you'd thought the little pinpricks of light drifting around were dust, or sunspots: sometimes that shit happens when you're out in the day. (That's why you don't go out. You've got botched-up hearchutes: you don't need your bulbs fucking up on top of it all.) But they're increasing, and you watch, eyebrows furrowed, as one drifts down onto your gloved hand.
As soon as it touches the glove, it becomes obvious it's not a goddamn dustmite.
"Fuck!" It stings like you've just been burnt, and it's shock more than pain that has you snatching your hand back. Pheres watches, wide-eyed, says something, and then he fucking chirps at you, voice pitched in a wriggler's appeal.
When you look at him, it becomes obvious why. Hidden deeper in the shade of the awning, you can actually see the way his fucking horns are sparking at you, little bursts of psionic aura pulsing from the bottom all the way to the top. His eyes are trying to do it too, and it's fucking unpleasant to look at, the way the light tries and fails to pulse around the remaining lense.
"What the fuck did you drink," you demand, incredulous. "Straight honey?"
no subject
(Little thing probably thinks you'll haul him straight back if he tries, and he's right enough. No point in having made this mirthless trip if you don't haul him back in, all sound of flesh, and prove Sipara wrong once and for all.)
"There's nothing wrong with it," he says hesitantly, "just--"
If he says something else, you don't notice, because something fucking weird is happening around you. At first, you'd thought the little pinpricks of light drifting around were dust, or sunspots: sometimes that shit happens when you're out in the day. (That's why you don't go out. You've got botched-up hearchutes: you don't need your bulbs fucking up on top of it all.) But they're increasing, and you watch, eyebrows furrowed, as one drifts down onto your gloved hand.
As soon as it touches the glove, it becomes obvious it's not a goddamn dustmite.
"Fuck!" It stings like you've just been burnt, and it's shock more than pain that has you snatching your hand back. Pheres watches, wide-eyed, says something, and then he fucking chirps at you, voice pitched in a wriggler's appeal.
When you look at him, it becomes obvious why. Hidden deeper in the shade of the awning, you can actually see the way his fucking horns are sparking at you, little bursts of psionic aura pulsing from the bottom all the way to the top. His eyes are trying to do it too, and it's fucking unpleasant to look at, the way the light tries and fails to pulse around the remaining lense.
"What the fuck did you drink," you demand, incredulous. "Straight honey?"