"are you a... ah, security guard, or cop, or something?" andy questions, fiddling with his glasses (the lenses of which are cracked) in one hand. "because... i'm not doing anything suspicious." // to modern au roger perhaps!! girl helpshdjdj
Such a wide mouth makes for an even longer frown when disturbed. Roger had heard the commotion with ease, rather large ears tuned to disruptions like a second nature. A skill so deeply embedded in himself that he's unsure who he'd be without it. In his gentle grip ( he's not scared after all, no need to tighten yet ) rests the wood of a broomstick. Odd engravings stained into the birch wood, in a way that makes it clear it's not natural upon any inspection. Carved them in himself, when there was free time. He absently strokes the handle with his crooked thumb to follow those grooves. Angling his rather disfigured face in the direction he feels breathing from, neck craning awkwardly to feel it even better. This was how he engaged with anyone who crossed his line of work, and it took much precision to perfect. At least he knows the person is facing him. If the pest tries to make a break for it, the loud thud of feet would alert him plenty, and he was spry enough to give chase. Despite his crippled figure, his long arms and aquired broomstick gave him an advantage every time. That, and he was the best predator when it came to the 'hide and seek' games that always followed.
( sometimes, they didn't even realize he was blind. his hat shadows his stolen eyes well, after all, so they never understand their advantage. easy, easy, easy— )
The incorrect guess makes his plump nose wrinkle in distaste, lips peeling back to show peculiar teeth. A cop? Did this pest see any badge on his person? Only thing pinned to his green attire was a name tag that any employee would have. 'Roger' plastered across the reflective metal ; right under the eye engraved into the whole thing. He's almost tempted to puff out his chest, like some sort of preening bird, so the person actually catches it— yet mentally grumbles about how embarrassing all that effort would be. Though talking wasn't his strong suit, the janitor knew he had no choice but to swiftly correct the error that was spoken. He didn't want anyone to think he was a higher position than he really was. If his employer heard ... His ears strain, ringing, and he quickly stops that train of muddy thoughts.
" Nnh-not either, clearly ... " For emphasis, Roger shakes the broom in his clutches. He would raise an eyebrow if he had one. " Cleaning th-things here and th-there. S'all I do. "
Despite the curt, honest response ; his slightly drained skin seems to flush up awkwardly. A mantra of 'please don't make fun of me' pounding vividly at his head. His speech dies as easily as it started. Too soft of a sound for such a creepy looking thing like him. He's human, he knows, yet he's never felt like one. Too odd even for his own skin, it seems. What a miserable road he's been tasked to walk. At least he's found solace here, among the job— effectively keeping his mind at bay while working towards bettering the establishment. Cleaning as he's tasked, securing things when he's asked, the whole shebang! It's why he finds his sadistic nature slowly rising whenever someone threatens that. Giving him a justifiable excuse to hone that tickled, violent nature and release it upon some poor thing. Especially when said poor thing is a trespassing, walking headache roaming about after hours.
Snorting, Roger finally smiles a bit. Such a thin lipped thing that curls too wickedly at the corners. " Isss th-that ssh-so? Mind puh-putting my doubts at ease, th-then? Why are you truly here? "
This time, his voice doesn't quiet out. It stays, never wavering, as he finally gets to the nitty gritty. He smiles, making sure to straighten his spine so he's at his full height. Towering over the other with little effort, something he can pinpoint when that familiar breathing starts tickling the fabric coating his lower chest. Only then does he tighten his grip on the broomstick, fingers creaking like the floor of this old death trap. He's still not scared, no, but he is preparing himself to lurch forward and grab if a chase begins. Which always happens—
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