Re: Kit & Tory: Area 52
Kit wasn't Canadian. He wasn't even Scottish. He had been born in Alabama and grown up there but the man's accent had only mildly softened with proximity to his home state, like butter trying to melt. Perhaps it was British, but whatever it was Kit had apologized on entry. He wasn't, given how precarious the desk situation looked, entirely sorry for having done so. He looked calm. A little shy, as he ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck with three fingers, and braced his hand there as he looked back up again but calmer than the man in the room.
He looked patient and then a little, a very little, amused. It was tiny, the smile and he put it away again as soon as he took it out but his eyes glimmered mirth from the door-jam. It had to be said he had made no attempt at ingress into the rest of the room. "Yes. I said so," he said mildly, and then tilted his head to one side, awaiting the outcome of Tory's prior assumption. His forehead furrowed, but only for a moment and the smile, faint but present, lurked. "It says L, on the plate," he remarked, as he held out his own hand to shake. Kit's were warm, pale, delicate fingers. Pianist or surgeon's hands. He was neither.
"Yes. It appears to be both a lab and yours," that was also mild, and very dry.