Work Text:
I’m getting too old for this, Jocasta thought, peering down at the younglings who had taken over a table in the Archives. A few datapads were propped up, each displaying different shots of varactyls. But an unpleasant surprise lay in and around a canvas in the middle of the table.
“These are the Archives, not an art studio,” she said. The children wilted under her stern words and stare. One hastily set down their paintbrush into a cup, as though Jocasta hadn’t already seen it in their hands.
“We were just trying to make sure we got it right,” Luke said. He looked much like his father had at that age, a resemblance that did not, in Jocasta’s opinion, lend much credibility to his innocent expression.
She firmly reminded him and his friends that they could check their reference images out, or even make printouts to take with them. Painting, however, was not an appropriate activity for the Archives.
“And you are responsible for cleaning up any mishaps,” she added.
Fortunately, it turned out that nothing had been spilled, and the chastised younglings quickly cleared out, painting supplies and reference images and all, and everything was in order once again.