guns for hands

Aesop had gotten himself into a pretty good rhythm, digging and humming to himself while he worked. A growing pile of dirt sat behind him, dirt spraying up and out between his legs as he dug. So absorbed was he in his work that he didn't notice anyone approaching (nor did he hear them over the sound of his digging and humming) until she spoke.

Then he started, whipping his head around to look at her over his shoulder/butt. Aesop rolled his eyes at the nickname, backing out of the hole he'd been digging to wheel around and face her. "Spectra," he greeted, then teased, "so much for not being about that pack life, huh?" Suddenly, he shook in place, trying to rid himself of the massive amount of dirt that had collected in his coat. And if, maybe, he accidentally sent some her way, then that was just revenge for the nicknaming.