bone canis [closed]

[lottawork]

His fingers skim the length of his laptop, tracing its edges as he watches the text on the monitor, promoting some sort of entry-level job access tutorial, blur into parallel streaks. Irritating as he had found ROMAC on principle, it had at least been a useful inlet into the Rift's center of activity with a conveniently, moderately high salary.

Thus far, he has found Manhattan's job market to be comparatively disappointing.

The laptop snaps shut in an abrupt, frustrated jerk of motion, prefacing the inevitable downward arch of Rush's shoulders as he buries his face in his hands and breathes out, worn and protracted. He is tired, or he is reasonably certain he is tired - the other potential explanations for the excess of mental fatigue seem unlikely, as he is relatively sure he would remember being drunk and he is equally unlikely to be experiencing some dissociative episode apropos of nothing and, clearly, it has been a sufficient amount of time since he has last slept as he cannot remember the time he last slept, which serves as an adequate proof of assumption in his mind.

Rush shuts his eyes and tries to recover some sort of celerity or clarity of thought.

Comments

[lottawork]

He looks back at her and tries not to feel utterly bemused at the rate and outcome of his current circumstance.

"Yes, well." His hand slides from the back of his neck and the budding ache buried in the muscle. "I suppose I owe you."

Lamentably, it is supremely unlikely that caring for the unassuming animal on his floor will be an adequate exchange, considering the habit Daine seems to have made of rescuing him from unpleasant situations.

[wildmage_daine]

Well, she thinks, he said it, not her. On the other hand, he hasn't said a word about the fall of the rebel base since she arrived, and she could just about hug him for that if a refreshing lack of tender feelings wasn't the whole point.

"For this," she says, "we can call it even." At least until the next bout of ruction tips the scales one way or the other, but she's guessing they'd both rather not think about that.

She takes a step towards the door, then hesitates. "Is there anything you need?" The dog's needs are covered - or will be - but two-legger needs are a bit more complicated. She's going out anyway, though, so she might as well check.

[lottawork]

Dubious as he is regarding the legitimacy of her claim, he currently lacks the motivation or contentious verve to argue to the contrary. He eyes the dog warily until the hesitant question reminds him of the fact that both time and space are behaving linearly, and therefore there would be no reason to assume Daine has left his apartment in the space between seconds.

He catches the rising intonation of expectation without the specifics of intent, his mental topography caught in an irresolving error cast in variegating shades of neon confusion.

Why has a dog, of all things, been left in his care.

"No," he says, unable to perform any sort of mental decoupling from his puzzlement and the basis of his puzzlement. "I don't believe so."