|Will Stutely (sly_stutely) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2020-07-10 20:36:00
|Entry tags:||will scarlet, will stutely|
|Will Stutely had shown up on the doorstep of the Parsonage mid-Wednesday morning with a battered toolbox and a couple of big bags from Home Depot and had more or less refused to leave ever since. He'd spent most of the last two days stomping around the house determinedly trying to make himself useful, and quite possibly making a nuisance of himself in the process.|
It might not have been quite so bad if he'd been prepared to accept a little help, but Stutely was stubbornly insistent that he and his one working hand could take care of every odd job on his own, whether it be replacing a lightbulb or installing new locks on every single door and window. To be fair, he did usually get there in the end – he was actually a pretty adept handyman; it was a job he'd fallen back on often enough over the years – but only after extended sessions of clattering around, cursing and shooting ugly looks at anybody who so much as thought about offering a hand.
He needed to be doing something, was the problem. And because he'd failed at the thing that was important – protecting Tuck – and because it would be idiotic to run off half-cocked to attempt the thing he wanted to be doing – beating the ever-living fuck out of the Sheriff and throwing him down an abandoned mine shaft with a couple dozen explosive charges as a chaser – Stutely was left instead with this. Plugging leaks, sealing cracks. Fixing the things that could be fixed.
Right now, he was returning from a store run, trudging down the front path with a couple more Home Depot bags looped around his wrist and a fresh bag of ice slung over his shoulder. It wasn't till he reached the front door – locked nice and snug with the new dead bolt he'd installed – that Stutely realised his problem. He gave an irritated grunt. One hand short, again.