An argument.
" Beau, what the -- what the hell are you doing here?"
Beauregard Reynolds, Beau by those that knew him in this part of the 'verse, expects the question. He doesn't even flinch in his politician's smile he gives his long-since-ex-wife. "May I come in?"
"No you certainly may not. How dare you even show up he--"
"Please don't start in on me just yet, Sallie. I just want to talk to you."
"Without announcing yourself?" Sallie goes on, not even slowed down by the interruption. "Without so much as a wave lettin' me know you wanted to talk to me? Hell no, Beauregard. Get off my land."
Instead, Beau reaches into his inside jacket pocket, extracting a folded piece of paper. He gives Sallie the tiniest of smiles - he got his cracked tooth fixed, some time ago. "I'm sorry you feel that way; you were always so wángù de. Good night, Sallie Reynolds."
And just like that, he left.
No salutations and no small talk. If anything, Beau remembers that Sallie would not have time for either. Not with him, at least.
Sallie Abigail Reynolds.
You and I, according to public record, still share a name. We passed this name on to our one and only son. A Browncoat volunteer who has gotten himself into more trouble than I can even seem to find records on.
I have a business proposition for him and I would like you to find him for me. I do not demand - because I have no methods by which I could demand anything from you. I can pay you for the information, but I have the small hope that you would provide this to me on your own account.
I know as well as you do that he cannot come back here. I did not even feel safe waving you about him out of worries that you might be implicated in anything. (I swear I will do my best to avoid being seen when I stop by, but a man can only do so much.) I can solve this issue he has here.
I wasn't a father before. Ever. Let me be one now. At least give him the choice.
Beauregard Reynolds.
Sallie reads the letter about seven times before shoving it into the bottom of her satchel she'd been packing for the bar with shaky hands, only barely remembering to pick up Charlie's pie before walking through her pantry.
Beauregard Reynolds, Beau by those that knew him in this part of the 'verse, expects the question. He doesn't even flinch in his politician's smile he gives his long-since-ex-wife. "May I come in?"
"No you certainly may not. How dare you even show up he--"
"Please don't start in on me just yet, Sallie. I just want to talk to you."
"Without announcing yourself?" Sallie goes on, not even slowed down by the interruption. "Without so much as a wave lettin' me know you wanted to talk to me? Hell no, Beauregard. Get off my land."
Instead, Beau reaches into his inside jacket pocket, extracting a folded piece of paper. He gives Sallie the tiniest of smiles - he got his cracked tooth fixed, some time ago. "I'm sorry you feel that way; you were always so wángù de. Good night, Sallie Reynolds."
And just like that, he left.
No salutations and no small talk. If anything, Beau remembers that Sallie would not have time for either. Not with him, at least.
Sallie Abigail Reynolds.
You and I, according to public record, still share a name. We passed this name on to our one and only son. A Browncoat volunteer who has gotten himself into more trouble than I can even seem to find records on.
I have a business proposition for him and I would like you to find him for me. I do not demand - because I have no methods by which I could demand anything from you. I can pay you for the information, but I have the small hope that you would provide this to me on your own account.
I know as well as you do that he cannot come back here. I did not even feel safe waving you about him out of worries that you might be implicated in anything. (I swear I will do my best to avoid being seen when I stop by, but a man can only do so much.) I can solve this issue he has here.
I wasn't a father before. Ever. Let me be one now. At least give him the choice.
Beauregard Reynolds.
Sallie reads the letter about seven times before shoving it into the bottom of her satchel she'd been packing for the bar with shaky hands, only barely remembering to pick up Charlie's pie before walking through her pantry.