Re: Garage: Elijah/Aubrey
Elijah's posture, let's be clear, was not that of a snarling, lower-runged member of the food apex in a Mexican stand-off. It had similarities to the prospects of a rabbit in high-beam headlights. Blinking was proximate to moving, which was no good whatsoever when caught betwixt wall and predator. Elijah had no idea what the man was, but he was something with teeth. The teeth didn't appear to be connected to whatever it was that had made him that way.
Didn't comment on commonalities, or the banality of a question about what he was. Didn't say a word. Moisture had dried up from the inside of his mouth, wanted the man out of the door, back into his not-German car and gone as quickly as possible. Had said no tires on offer, didn't understand why the man didn't cut his losses and leave. Was nothing here for him. Going for him, Elijah, wouldn't do him any good, which Elijah acknowledged with the bitter irony of one who was going to be made to squirm either way. Touch made it worse. Had the boy who buzzed to know that.
"Mine." The garage. Elijah didn't look at the money. Didn't need money. Didn't want money. Transactions were pared down to the essential: soap, coffee, books. "Put your wallet away. There is nothing here for you." Elijah's voice was twisted, sharp and thin. But it was flatly matter-of-fact. Nothing here. This was Elijah's shop and no, the man with the sarcasm and the cashmere and the vast car was unwelcome.