He hadn’t expected a visitor, much less a child that was clearly too young to be out by herself in all this. When it hit him just how young she appeared, his eye grew wide. His appearance must have made her react like that. The visible scars he had gave him an image of roughness. People would assume he were a brute based on that alone, but the way he was built and how much taller he was than the girl wouldn’t help much to deter·her from those thoughts.
It tugged at his heartstrings to hear the fear in her voice. Someone so young didn’t deserve to go through this. The parental side of him wanted to pat her back and assure her she’d be safe. “Y’don’t have t’,” he informed her in his gruff tone.·
He made no move towards her, knowing she would likely run off if he did. Instead, he inspected her, pondering the question of if she’d truly been alone – like him. Her parents were likely dead… An attempt at softening his voice was made. “How.. how old are you?”·
Rachel shuffled her feet ( a nervous tick ) and watched him as she tried to
decide whether he seemed like the type to let her go or not. He didn’t say
she could leave, but he also hadn’t shot her yet. And it seemed the gears
turning in his head were leaning more towards shock at seeing someone
her age rather than anger that his apparent safe haven had been stumbled
upon. That realization dawning on her didn’t really do much to quell her
mounting fear, but it was a small comfort. Beaten and bruised didn’t mean
bad. Jumping to conclusions kept her safe, but people like Bigby back in
Fabletown had taught her not to assume the worst. Maybe she just needed
to breathe.
“ . . . you’re not mad, then? Sometimes people want to hurt me if I
end up hiding in the same place they do.”
It wasn’t pity bait for once. She didn’t have to make herself look pathetic;
this world and the facts of how she’d survived within it did that for her and
adults alike on its own. She wrung her hands in front of her stomach,
shying away from making eye contact once she realized he was trying to
make conversation... or maybe just trying to keep her from bolting out the
door. She couldn’t tell. Her trembling legs had her feet glued to the floor,
anyways.
“I’m...” really old,·“ . . . seven,” just not technically.
He wasn’t even doing anything scary and she still wanted to cry. Probably
looked it, too. Goddamn, she may as well be a seven-year-old human
girl.
“How... how old... how old are you?”
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