Re: log: connie/atticus
Atticus' mother had made snickerdoodles. He recalled evenings spent in the kitchen, the smell of spices in his nose, and his mother telling him one story or another. He'd mentioned them on a whim tonight, but he hadn't expected to actually get any. Baking wasn't something Connie got paid for, and Atticus didn't expect much in the way of human kindness.
He was in the carriage house, AC/DC playing, and books strewn all around the tiny main level. He wore his glasses, plaid pajama pants, and a sweatshirt from the university in the Capital. He wasn't an impressive sight, scruffy and with his curls a mess. But Atticus was too lazy to attempt to impress, and the only difference during daylight hours would've involved a pair of jeans or some corduroys. At least he wore socks, even if the plaid didn't match his pajamas. In short, Atticus looked frumpy.
The carriage house was quiet tonight, from a less-than-human perspective. It was cold inside, because the temperature was always lower than it was outside. In spots, the place was downright frigid, and even Atticus didn't go near the tiny belfry that topped the structure. Atticus was lazy, but he wasn't stupid. Might not seem the case, with how accident prone he was, but he did try to avoid injuries. At present, his hand was burnt, but nothing else seemed amiss.
The knock was unexpected, and he was still holding a book in his hand when he opened the door. The cold breeze gusted out, the air harboring the kind of acridness that the B&B did during heavy ghost sightings, but Atticus was more concerned by the girl standing at his door. "Your eyes must be a hit on Halloween." He glanced down at the cookies, rubbed the nape of his neck with the- er- book, and he stepped aside to let her in.