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Entry tags:
speaking of problem children.
God knows when there'll be another word-count update on the Numb3rs epic, as progress so far has been much of the two-steps-forward-one-back variety. I've just cut all of yesterday's (not very many) words for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, but as I'm fond of them and they're not particularly spoilery for what's going on in the story, I reproduce them here:
OUTTAKE
Don woke up on his feet, gun in hand and at the ready, but the door only opened a few inches. It let in a dim wedge of light, and a hand holding a paper bag. The bag dropped to the carpet with a dense finality, and the door slammed shut again, leaving them in complete darkness.
Don lowered the gun slowly, rubbed his face against his shoulder and checked the safety by touch. He'd taken it off when he grabbed the gun, apparently. Don cleared his throat as he flicked it back on, dropping into a crouch and feeling around on the floor for his holster. "Charlie?"
In the silence after his brother's name, he could hear Charlie breathing, a little too fast and deep to be sleeping, as if Charlie could have slept through that. Don just had time to wonder if Charlie was going to pretend anyway, and then he said, "Yeah." He sounded a little breathless, but not really scared. Good enough.
Don picked up his holster, running his hands over the straps to be sure he had it straight, and shrugged it on. As he did, he reran the entire minute or so that comprised the day so far. He could almost feel, less like a memory than an echo lingering in the muscle, his waking lunge for the gun, the motion of his body as he rolled to his feet. Don frowned as he holstered the Sig, looking down as he did even though he couldn't see anything. "Did I kick you?"
"A little," Charlie said. No hesitation this time. There was an extended rustling noise, skin and flannel friction, and Don could almost see Charlie reaching down to rub the offended shin. "It's okay."
Don woke up on his feet, gun in hand and at the ready, but the door only opened a few inches. It let in a dim wedge of light, and a hand holding a paper bag. The bag dropped to the carpet with a dense finality, and the door slammed shut again, leaving them in complete darkness.
Don lowered the gun slowly, rubbed his face against his shoulder and checked the safety by touch. He'd taken it off when he grabbed the gun, apparently. Don cleared his throat as he flicked it back on, dropping into a crouch and feeling around on the floor for his holster. "Charlie?"
In the silence after his brother's name, he could hear Charlie breathing, a little too fast and deep to be sleeping, as if Charlie could have slept through that. Don just had time to wonder if Charlie was going to pretend anyway, and then he said, "Yeah." He sounded a little breathless, but not really scared. Good enough.
Don picked up his holster, running his hands over the straps to be sure he had it straight, and shrugged it on. As he did, he reran the entire minute or so that comprised the day so far. He could almost feel, less like a memory than an echo lingering in the muscle, his waking lunge for the gun, the motion of his body as he rolled to his feet. Don frowned as he holstered the Sig, looking down as he did even though he couldn't see anything. "Did I kick you?"
"A little," Charlie said. No hesitation this time. There was an extended rustling noise, skin and flannel friction, and Don could almost see Charlie reaching down to rub the offended shin. "It's okay."