Re: log: connie/atticus
Atticus loved Meatloaf. Atticus loved music. He could usually be found with a Walkman tucked thickly into a pocket, or with the Boombox playing. But Meatloaf was a personal favorite, and he didn't even have a nostalgic reason for the fondness. He just liked the words, the sentiments, and maybe there was enough of the man doomed to be unhappy in the songs. Atticus wouldn't call himself melancholic, because being melancholy seemed too much work. But he did like Meatloaf.
Predictably, he did lift his gaze to follow the toss of the cookie into the air. It was just a lift of nondescript hazel eyes, unconcerned, as if people throwing cookies into the air was an everyday occurrence. He noticed Meatloaf's sluggish voice before he noticed that the cookie didn't act like it should. But he did notice, eventually, with that same slow attention he gave to everything, and then he looked at the girl on his couch. The room was darkening. This wasn't good.
But there wasn't any fear or terror or any larger and polysyllabic word to describe his expression when her face melted away. He barely noticed the sound, and he barely noticed the wink. He was still staring when everything normalized. "Impressive. The cookie trick," he said, as if the skeleton thing was nothing. "How long's your father been gone, and why the skeleton?" She'd said science, and he only marginally associated science with skeletons.
And he'd noticed, even if she hadn't, how the air in the room had turned to ice, and how the place smelled acrid, the scent wafting down the twirling staircase slowly enough that Atticus figured they had time. Maybe it would calm. He didn't look toward those stairs. He kept his attention on the girl on the couch. Hopefully, it would pass. If not, the door was close enough that they stood a good chance.