Re: At the Picnic Table
Alcuin laughed in earnest at the thought of his master as a puppy – at least by werewolf standards. He likely shouldn't have, but at least his master wasn't near enough to chastise him for the slight. It felt good to laugh with someone, though; he couldn't remember the last time he had truly laughed at something like that. Stiles seemed to be as adept at setting people at ease as he had ever been. Curiously, the thought didn't bother him as much as it might have had the boy been anyone else. “I apologize,” though his quivering lips said otherwise. “I should not laugh at him like that. It's just – a very apt description of him.”
Stiles was also a very quick study and a perceptive one at that. Alcuin hadn't meant to let slip the sadness in his voice as he described his childhood to Stiles, but no matter how many times he had been forced to repeat it word for word in the holding pens it never got any easier to speak of. He wondered how long it would be before it was nothing more than a distant memory. A part of him wasn't convinced it would ever be. “Thank you,” Alcuin whispered, reaching up to place his hand over the top of Stiles'. He wisely refrained from explaining what, exactly, had happened to him when his masters were gone.
A moment passed and he cleared his throat in the hope of clearing the air, which had abruptly turned chilly with sorrow. “What is your master like?”