milliways_bar | (no subject)

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When Autor steps through the door today, his clothes remain the same: white pants, oversized gray sweater, and glasses. What changes are the ears. Not his, necessarily--those still remain human--but he sprouts fuzzy, gray, and pointed kitten ears on top of his head with a soft, "Oh!" The tail is also new, and telegraphs his body language as the tip curves upward in agitation.

"Really?" he calls up to the ceiling. "Come on!"

Experimentally, he brushes his fingers against one of his fuzzy new appendages--and tears his hand away, blushing. They point in different directions, moving independently of one another to show his ambivalence with the costume.

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"Excellent," Autor says cheerfully, his tail pointing straight up. "Well, as long as they do their jobs, Mr. Norrell can't complain. Who cares where they've come from as long as they're doing well in the present? I applaud you for helping other people when you can."

"Precisely. I am not running the household as a charity, but I will help those down on their luck if they will put in their own part."

"Good," Autor says, nodding firmly, his ears pressing forward and slightly to the side. "I suspect you're a marvelous judge of character."

That gets a crooked smile.

"I pride myself on it."

"Just so," Autor says, mirroring that smile. "You seem to know yourself very well, Childermass. Congratulations; it's a feat most don't seem to accomplish."

"I have had reason to learn exactly what I can and cannot do, and who I am." He nods. "And the first thing my mother taught me was never to be ashamed."

"A good lesson, to be sure," Autor says, inclining his head. "She must have been a great teacher, for you learned it well."

"She was." A fleeting fond smile. "Of a great many things."

Autor nods. He has a soft spot in his heart for his own mother, so he knows how Childermass feels. "Do you visit her grave often?"

Edited 2015-11-01 06:44 (UTC)

"Every week, at least when I am not away on business. She had enough squirrelled away for rainy days to get her a grave of her own."

"That's good at least," Autor says, inclining his head. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I'm glad you have a grave to visit. When did she die?"

"I was twelve", he says simply. "Consumption."

"Oh, my," Autor says, his ears lowering. "That's rather young. You are a devoted son to visit every week since then."

"She was a devoted mother. Taught me well, the least I can do is remember her."

"Indeed," Autor says, wondering if that's how he'll speak of his own mother someday. Perhaps someday soon, though he won't be able to visit her grave once he moves to Milliways. The thought is disconcerting.

"Well, Childermass, I'll leave you to your cards," Autor says, sketching a bow. His ears perk forward in a straight-up orientation. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

"Likewise." He smiles slightly. "Until next time, then."

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