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Description
Even on days when he didn't have to play her babysitter she would come bother him, slinking away from whatever poor idiot Atlas had assigned to watch her that day (less like a young girl, more like a fox, a wisp, something tricky that is there one second and then gone the next, leaving nothing behind but a glimpse of a flipping skirt or the disappearing frays of a pigtail).

If he is around, he is in the garage, elbow deep in the hood of the car that he and Heller usually utilize when duty calls in blood spatters or changing money; he busies himself in this way frequently if he is to be found near the Little Daisy cafe before the St. Louis sun has set. There is enough money from the other business for mechanics to work on the small fleet of automobiles Atlas has in his employ, but Viktor works on his car, and no one else does, if he can help it--because he is long-grizzled and slow to trust and though he puts his life in the hands of this polished piece of factory-line machinery, he will not put his life in the hands of the man who works on it. Not unless they belong to him.

Viktor is not obsessive but he is determined in this near-daily chore. So he is annoyed when she slips away
(like a wisp, like a fox)
and reappears behind him, watching and chattering away. In the beginning he growls at her and actively attempts to shoo her off, telling her that she should not be there, because he is busy and he needs to concentrate and she is no help. Soon he learns to ignore her, but she still comes and talks talks talks, though somehow, and for a while it seems she doesn't need a captive audience to continue jawing about the trivialities of childhood life. He notices after a while that she asks more if he's listening to her, and his lack of answer stands as an answer in itself. As he grows better at ignoring her, (or so he says) she appears to grow more frustrated with him--which is important for a second, before he reminds himself that he shouldn't care, because there is a car engine in front of him in need of oil and he is stained halfway up his forearms.

He is annoyed with himself when he notices that her visits have become less frequent. He hopes that whatever idiot Atlas had assigned her to that day is keeping her safe (in his mind, maybe, hopes that is why the garage echoes only with the sounds of his own tinkering hands and the occasional echoes of a
(fox?)
visitor who isn't her.

And then his tools start disappearing.

Working isn't impossible but more annoying, and who knew Viktor Vasko could become grumpier? Those days the visiting footsteps decrease when he is in the garage, more often spied crouched over his toolbox and cursing underneath his breath in some harsh foreign tone and looking for a screwdriver than the hood of the car.

His tools return when she does, and the first time she catches him tossing aside ratchets and mumbling that string of non-English that is so common that it is nearly subconscious.

"Looking for this?"

A crescent wrench hovers beside him, and he follows its stem, up a skinny arm and to a face that smiles at him, all teeth and big eyes. He realizes that she has come back after weeks of absence before he realizes that he is also looking at a wrench he hasn't seen in days. He tenses, and grits his teeth, and he almost yells at her, but then she tilts her head, and looks at him with the most hopeful inquisitive look, and he just turns back to his toolbox and grunts out a, "No."

Her face falls and she leaves, but she is determined and every day a new tool returns in her hands, always with that same question, and for a while he answers, "No," until he utters a grunt that could mean "thank you."

Finally one day she helps him change a tire, and she chatters and natters and talks talks talks.

Sometimes he listens.

****

BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH

Lackadaisy (c)

Description
Even on days when he didn't have to play her babysitter she would come bother him, slinking away from whatever poor idiot Atlas had assigned to watch her that day (less like a young girl, more like a fox, a wisp, something tricky that is there one second and then gone the next, leaving nothing behind but a glimpse of a flipping skirt or the disappearing frays of a pigtail).

If he is around, he is in the garage, elbow deep in the hood of the car that he and Heller usually utilize when duty calls in blood spatters or changing money; he busies himself in this way frequently if he is to be found near the Little Daisy cafe before the St. Louis sun has set. There is enough money from the other business for mechanics to work on the small fleet of automobiles Atlas has in his employ, but Viktor works on his car, and no one else does, if he can help it--because he is long-grizzled and slow to trust and though he puts his life in the hands of this polished piece of factory-line machinery, he will not put his life in the hands of the man who works on it. Not unless they belong to him.

Viktor is not obsessive but he is determined in this near-daily chore. So he is annoyed when she slips away
(like a wisp, like a fox)
and reappears behind him, watching and chattering away. In the beginning he growls at her and actively attempts to shoo her off, telling her that she should not be there, because he is busy and he needs to concentrate and she is no help. Soon he learns to ignore her, but she still comes and talks talks talks, though somehow, and for a while it seems she doesn't need a captive audience to continue jawing about the trivialities of childhood life. He notices after a while that she asks more if he's listening to her, and his lack of answer stands as an answer in itself. As he grows better at ignoring her, (or so he says) she appears to grow more frustrated with him--which is important for a second, before he reminds himself that he shouldn't care, because there is a car engine in front of him in need of oil and he is stained halfway up his forearms.

He is annoyed with himself when he notices that her visits have become less frequent. He hopes that whatever idiot Atlas had assigned her to that day is keeping her safe (in his mind, maybe, hopes that is why the garage echoes only with the sounds of his own tinkering hands and the occasional echoes of a
(fox?)
visitor who isn't her.

And then his tools start disappearing.

Working isn't impossible but more annoying, and who knew Viktor Vasko could become grumpier? Those days the visiting footsteps decrease when he is in the garage, more often spied crouched over his toolbox and cursing underneath his breath in some harsh foreign tone and looking for a screwdriver than the hood of the car.

His tools return when she does, and the first time she catches him tossing aside ratchets and mumbling that string of non-English that is so common that it is nearly subconscious.

"Looking for this?"

A crescent wrench hovers beside him, and he follows its stem, up a skinny arm and to a face that smiles at him, all teeth and big eyes. He realizes that she has come back after weeks of absence before he realizes that he is also looking at a wrench he hasn't seen in days. He tenses, and grits his teeth, and he almost yells at her, but then she tilts her head, and looks at him with the most hopeful inquisitive look, and he just turns back to his toolbox and grunts out a, "No."

Her face falls and she leaves, but she is determined and every day a new tool returns in her hands, always with that same question, and for a while he answers, "No," until he utters a grunt that could mean "thank you."

Finally one day she helps him change a tire, and she chatters and natters and talks talks talks.

Sometimes he listens.

****

BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH

Lackadaisy (c)