#mixestapes01.

shelby grabs baby’s sleeve before he’s out of reach, gives it a firm tug to encourage him to turn around. he drops his chin and purses his lips, exhaling slowly as he suffers a shooting pain from knee to hip.  ‘ leg, ’ he signs. ‘ need a minute. ’

         ‘ you’re a right mess, aren’t you? ’ 

dirty from working under the car, no doubt, and causing thomas great unspoken dismay as a result. he quips to draw attention away from the light flush climbing his neck. he’s grateful for the cigarette between his fingers, even if it’s begun to burn. 

         ‘ forget dinner. mr. carson isn’t going to let you in looking like that. ’

         ‘ are you unusually tall or have i begun to sink into the floor? ’ he pauses partway through his next word as if to consider his own question (and definitely to press his toes into the floor to check for give). ‘ o--ooor am i shrinking prematurely? ’

         ‘ you can’t be here, kid. ’ the slack-jawed, pinched-brow pause that follows is a product of confusion. burgeoning distrust. ‘ how the hell’d you get in, anyway? ’

         ‘ hey! you’re the guy --- ’ that he’s wagging a finger doesn’t make it sound any less like an accidental profession of love, or any more like the angry accusation he’d had loaded. ‘ --- stealing all my good customers. you gotta tell me your secret, man. ’