Up and running isn't on Sasuke's agenda--not yet, anyway. For one thing, he's too cold, although he has started to get used to the snow; for another, he can't sleep in trees here and his spine is decidedly unhappy with wooden benches, and he really doesn't want to develop a muscle spasm in the middle of a patrol.

He does want to avoid getting attached, though. He's already tempted to sink back in the couch and tuck his feet up, just sit and breathe for a minute--and that's dangerous. The thought of being dependent on someone else, whether it's for half the rent or a name on a lease or even regular cups of hot tea, is deeply disturbing. It makes him feel weak, soft. Scared, even.

With attachment comes pain at the inevitable separation. Sasuke knows that better than anyone.

He can still feel Warsman's eyes on him, but he keeps his own directed towards the small rippling of the tea in the cup. Another sip warms his throat, and he manages a smirk at the first comment--then abruptly forces it off his face when he realizes it's another sign of familiarity.

"No. Landlord wouldn't tell me where any of it went, but I'm pretty certain I'm not getting it back," he answers, tonelessly. He might not be able to force his feelings down, but he can damn well keep them from showing.

But then his stomach twists a little. He bites the inside of his cheek and stares at his lap. "Sorry about the earmuffs."