Nicholas Rush (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lottawork) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-08-07 11:41 pm
lottawork) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-08-07 11:41 pm
Entry tags:
I hope you blink before I do [closed]
He is tired, but this is not atypical for him.
He has a headache. This is also not atypical for him.
Rush walks the dog and he thinks of physics and he thinks of electromagnetism and he thinks of the Rift and he does not think of Asadi or of her arm or of the Devil.
He thinks of the Rift. The Rift.
He is aware he has been avoiding Central Park since that unfortunate encounter, and whether this personal decision was made unconsciously or subconsciously or semi-consciously, he does not care to examine. He prefers anonymous streets. He does. He's fairly certain he should institute this as a policy of his, fair fucking soon.
He'd been fucking brilliant, hadn't he, with his brazen confrontation of Satan and his handling of the problem and Rush tightens his grip on the leash and he is walking slightly faster but his breathing is steady and his headache lingers but he often has a headache and he has established that this is a perfectly natural state of events for him.
He is getting distracted.
He turns his mind back to centralized issue.
The Rift. Or the Devil, possibly.
One of the two. Possibly both.
He looks at the dog as it pants at him, flanks heaving, and stops. He kneels in front of it, scratching it behind its ears absently.
Its panting lapses into a low growl, muscles taut beneath his hand, and Rush sighs. The merits of dog ownership are becoming increasingly clear to him, most prominently in the fact that he will never get a fucking moment's peace when said dog is apparently acutely aware of sensing extraplanar beings.
Rising to his feet in a smooth, controlled shifting of weight, Rush wearily turns to face it.
He has a headache. This is also not atypical for him.
Rush walks the dog and he thinks of physics and he thinks of electromagnetism and he thinks of the Rift and he does not think of Asadi or of her arm or of the Devil.
He thinks of the Rift. The Rift.
He is aware he has been avoiding Central Park since that unfortunate encounter, and whether this personal decision was made unconsciously or subconsciously or semi-consciously, he does not care to examine. He prefers anonymous streets. He does. He's fairly certain he should institute this as a policy of his, fair fucking soon.
He'd been fucking brilliant, hadn't he, with his brazen confrontation of Satan and his handling of the problem and Rush tightens his grip on the leash and he is walking slightly faster but his breathing is steady and his headache lingers but he often has a headache and he has established that this is a perfectly natural state of events for him.
He is getting distracted.
He turns his mind back to centralized issue.
The Rift. Or the Devil, possibly.
One of the two. Possibly both.
He looks at the dog as it pants at him, flanks heaving, and stops. He kneels in front of it, scratching it behind its ears absently.
Its panting lapses into a low growl, muscles taut beneath his hand, and Rush sighs. The merits of dog ownership are becoming increasingly clear to him, most prominently in the fact that he will never get a fucking moment's peace when said dog is apparently acutely aware of sensing extraplanar beings.
Rising to his feet in a smooth, controlled shifting of weight, Rush wearily turns to face it.