sirenspull_logs | lazy days help me through the hopeless haze

Entry tags:

lazy days help me through the hopeless haze

Who: Warsman (

mouthbreathing ) and YOU
When: 18th- 21st of January
Where: Around the city.
Summary: Out and about in Siren's Port with the USSR's finest.
Warnings: None, as of yet?

[Time spent in the gym hasn't been quite such a solitary experience lately. Somehow he's managed to pick up a couple of sparring partners or even students who don't seem to mind his quiet manner- not that working out is generally conducive to conversation if you're doing it correctly, but simply being able to feel someone's presence is gratifying for Warsman. He might be hesitant to call some of them 'friends' so plainly, even if that's more down to his own uncertainty than anything on their part, but their company is still usually the highlight of his day. It's good to know there's someone who can keep pace with him on his runs, or someone who doesn't mind being thrown down onto the mat a dozen times a day. Lunch might be on him to boot, if you don't mind sticking around.

Work, too, might have the advantage of letting him meet people, but with so many of his clients being Port natives and his own natural shyness weighing heavily on him, interactions are usually perfunctory at best. Which is fine. He's a professional, after all. Usually he's just lifting and moving heavy furniture with the occasional bodyguard job thrown in here and there, but he's been asked to do just about everything there is to do: walk dogs, clean pools, shovel snow... he's not proud. He'll take almost any job- and any conversation that might come with it.

And then there's the trip home. Though he'd never say it aloud, with Sasuke on his couch his apartment feels a little less empty- not necessarily warmer, of course, but less like a place to stay and more like a place to be. He's taken to making sure he cooks enough for two and that he's around when Sasuke is, more or less, even if he doesn't expect too much more than silence. Even a shared silence is better than nothing, though. It's selfish, but he's probably going to miss the ninja when he finds a new place of his own.]

[ooc: Feel free to run into Warsman just about anywhere. At the gym, out running, sparring- or if your character might have hired him for any odd jobs at home or around their business or whatever that would be awesome too! I'm always open to suggestions, and I don't mind starting things off!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's not quite dark yet, but it's going to be if he stays out here much longer. He ducked silently through alleyways, down sidewalks, coming to a silent stop in at the front of the address Warsman sent him to--and for some reason, he's stuck there, his hands feeling as though they're made of lead at his sides, refusing to obey his direction to knock.

It's not quite dark yet, but it will be. And although he's been out in the dark before, he doesn't want to mess with the darkness proofing on the apartment. He needs to lift his fist, knock on the door, get inside and go from there. It's not a difficult task, knocking on a door--and yet his hands remain still.

Half of him is convinced that he's going to be kicked out on his ass, that Warsman will change his mind and slam the door in Sasuke's face. The other half feels as though he should be kicked out--even from the outside, he can tell the quarters aren't huge, and he's not going to be anything but a strain on resources, and his still has his job and he can survive just fine in the wilderness so why a few more nights in the mall bother him as much as they do--

He bites down on the inside of his lip. It's because he's gone soft here, living in more comfort than he'd had even in his apartment in Konoha. He's not fighting. He's not running.

He's becoming complacent.

Sasuke shifts his weight, grimacing in disgust--at himself, at the port, at Konoha. He drags air into his lungs, and the cold of it burns his throat.

He hates the winter.

With a final frustrated huff, he takes the urge to kick himself and forces his hand up and into a fist, rapping against the door.

Sasuke's discomfort forms a strange counterbalance to Warsman's ambivalence. There's always been something about winter that's called to him, a peaceful sort of calm that hums through every fall of snow in silent solitude. Feeling cold is, after all, feeling- and feeling is a sweet reminder of humanity. But it's a loaded time of year, and seeing a city freeze over has always stirred darker memories for him, too. Sitting alone on the front step and shivering, listening to coughs wrack his mother's body; an old friend buckled over and bleeding onto the white blanket; Mr. Barracuda in profile while he stands with extended claws, receptive and supple and wholly empty.

He thinks all of these things and none of them at all as he sits by the window, one foot jammed against the frame. Strumming his balalaika had seemed like a reasonable way to pass time until Sasuke arrived, but now he's listless, unable to string notes together in any pleasing fashion. He had a melody in mind, but it's gone now.

The sudden knock at the door comes as an immense relief, and Warsman is up on his feet in seconds, at the door in only a couple more. Mostly, he's relieved that he's even turned up at all; part of him was convinced that pride alone would force a change of heart and he'd stay huddle up in the mall, but no, he's here.

A few clicks and rattles later and Warsman opens the door- and it is Sasuke. He gives a soft sigh. "There you are. I was starting to worry." As much as he aims for 'light and conversational', he's concerned that he's already given his relief away; quickly, he steps aside. "Come in quickly, before you catch your death."

I was starting to worry. As light as the words are, Sasuke can still hear that worry in them--the relief.

Because of him. Because he's safe.

He doesn't know what to do with that--no matter how many times he does it, Warsman's expressions of concern, of actually giving a shit one way or another about Sasuke's well-being--it puts him in mind of his old team in Konoha, and of his brother. It's a concept he's never processed well; the idea that it matters to someone else whether he lives or dies.

With Team Seven, he simply refused to accept it--pushed it from the equation and hardened himself to it. With Itachi...he still hasn't figured out where to put it. Warsman is much the same. Confusing, and different and somehow Sasuke wants to be around it, wants to hear it again--I care about you. I worried about you.

The fact that he wants it makes his throat tighten up with the first stirrings of panic, so he shoves those thoughts down, kicks the snow off his boots and makes his way inside--"before you catch your death", Warsman says, and the thoughts rumble again like a nest of wasps exposed to smoke.

Sasuke grits his teeth, looking over one shoulder and around the sparse apartment. Cramped, as Warsman had said, but not as cramped as he'd made it out to be--then again, Sasuke doesn't take up much space by himself.

"I'm a ninja, I'm not going to die because of a little bad weather," he mutters, and his hands go in his pockets to keep from clenching into fists.

The protesting is about on-par for Sasuke, Warsman's come to learn over the past months: he's neither deterred nor surprised by his general surliness anymore and right now he's the very picture of it, hands in pockets and muttering as he shuffles past.

Warsman closes the door. Even with all of that in mind it's still a strange moment for him, and he catches himself trying (and failing) to search Sasuke's face for disapproval now that he's actually inside and looking around. He doesn't have to be houseproud to be worried that the place isn't up to scratch; as ridiculous as he knows it is, he's half-waiting for Sasuke to change his mind and walk straight back out again. Not that he'd stop him, of course.

"Even so. That coat isn't nearly thick enough for the snow." He doesn't sound too concerned now that he's managed to wrangle the ninja inside, though, his tone set to more of a gentle nudge than a nag. "Can I get you anything? I've got tea- no coffee, but..."

He doesn't even drink tea all that much, or even like it especially- but having it around makes him feel more as though Robin might magically walk through his doors at any second, and that eases a little of his homesickness. It's strange how the smell of a strong cup of Earl Grey with a slice of lemon and half a sugar can do so much.

Tea. His brain latches onto it as a distraction, something to direct his mind towards. Besides, it is cold out, and his fingers are a little stiff. The earmuffs Warsman gave him were part of the property he lost when the Core sent them back in time, along with the anonymous gloves.

"I'd like some tea," he says, shifting his weight onto one leg. He can feel Warsman looking at him, and it makes him uncomfortable--as though he's supposed to be reacting in some way that he isn't. The nervous energy is palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife.

So he gives a half-smile, and crouches to unlace his boots. "It's not as bad as you made it sound."

Edited 2013-01-22 10:07 (UTC)

Good. Tea. That gives Warsman something to do with his hands- it's a small something, but having something physical to do usually helps his nerves- while Sasuke settles in. "Make yourself at home," he says over his shoulder quickly before heading through to the kitchen area.

Sasuke's just out of his periphery as he rattles cups and spoons and tea about, but he does at least catch him over the domestic hum of the boiling kettle. "You think?" he asks- but that almost makes it sound as though he's seeking approval. A little self-consciously, he adds, "It's a place to stay. That's good enough for me. Make yourself at home, by the way."

'Make yourself at home': it's a trite little expression, but hopefully that won't bother his guest. He re-enters with two cups, putting one on the small, slightly chipped coffee table in front of the sofa.

Biting down the thought that he hasn't had a home in nearly a decade, Sasuke finishes untying his boots so he won't track melted snow into the living room. Regardless of the truth of it, it would upset Warsman; Sasuke's already imposing by taking up his couch, and he doesn't want to repay Warsman's kindness by dropping reminders of his tragic past.

He pads on socks into the living room, letting the clinking of dishes take up his focus. It's familiar--he remembers doing it for himself, on particularly bad nights--but a little jarring, too, bringing up memories of his mother. It's been years since he had a home, and longer since anyone has made tea for him.

He pulls himself out of his own head when Warsman re-enters with the tea. The steam is fragrant; suddenly, Sasuke is aware of how cold his hands are. Make yourself at home-- he takes a seat on the edge of the couch, reaches forward and just holds the mug for a minute.

"I told you, you worry too much." He picks up the cup and puts it to his mouth, inhaling before taking a sip.

By the time Warsman comes back Sasuke's boots are off and he's perched almost warily on the couch, as if he expects it to swallow him whole if he should dare sit back and relax, but that's alright. Shoes off means he's stuck here for a little while just out of practicality- which might be a terrible thought to have, but part of him is still worried that his new guest might vanish if he turns his back for too long.

He manages a quiet little laugh, at least, at Sasuke's accusation. It feels as though they've had this conversation so many times it's become a running joke of sorts. "I know, and I'll go on worrying anyway." Gauging even his own tone is difficult; he's being flippant, but he can't seem to shake the apology that underlines the whole thing. The trouble is, he does feel a little guilty for worrying when Sasuke can obviously take care of himself and his attention has even more obviously made him feel uncomfortable in the past.

The tea provides a welcome excuse to stay quiet for a moment or two. Warsman swallows a mouthful and lets it relax him. Why is he even tense at all? He's among friends.

"You couldn't get any of your things?" he asks after a moment, glancing up from his mug (mug. Robin would have a heart attack if he saw him serve Earl Grey in a mug).

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."

There's a fleeting moment wherein Warsman thinks he might just have made a breakthrough of some sort, catching sight of something close to a smile just about tugging at the corner of Sasuke's mouth- but then it melts away as quickly as the snow on the hallway carpet and he's back to the baseline.

"I see..." Warsman hesitates, clasping both hands together around his own mug. Privately he's grateful to have something to hold when he'd ordinarily be twisting his fingers round and around each other so that he'd have somewhere to channel his nervous energy. He doesn't need to be able to read Sasuke's body language- a good thing to, when it's locked down tighter than Fort Knox- to know that he's probably feeling unsettled enough without picking up on his host's...

He looks up abruptly- Sasuke's speaking again, and this time it's about something that catches him off guard. "It's okay. I could always find you another pair," he answers, his entire frame seeming to soften under the gentle weight of his tone. "I wouldn't want you to go cold for the rest of the winter."

But it's not really the practicality that matters, is it? It's the fact that they were a present- at least, that's what would bother Warsman. He watches Sasuke curiously for a moment, trying to work out if the feeling is mutual. He's not sure that he had him down as a sentimental person, but he's had a sneaking suspicion for a while now that he might be sensitive enough under the stoicism.

"Don't worry about me," Sasuke returns, speaking almost before he really thinks--he said me, not it, and it's such a tiny difference, but the implications seem maudlin and dramatic now that he's voiced it.

It's true, though. Don't worry about me. He doesn't want Warsman investing anything in him, although there's the chilling suspicion that it's a little late for that; still, there's time to build up enough of a blockade that he can slip back out of the apartment without leaving prints.

He can't afford to feel safe. The luxury to want to was taken from him before he learned what it was.

But he knows he's dwelling. If he does it long enough, it will start to darken his face, no matter how hard he tries to keep it under--that unpleasantness always seems to be simmering just under the surface, waiting for any chance to explode out of him like so much lava.

Which gives him an idea. He takes another swallow of tea. "I'm a fire user--worst comes to worst I can light up a stick and carry it around with me." This smirk, he allows to stay--it's attached to the quip rather than to any interaction between the two of them.

Easier said than done. Warsman's been trying his hardest not to worry out of- ironically- worry that it might be unsettling Sasuke, but that doesn't seem set to happen any time soon. He has just about too much of an idea about the sort of person he is for that: the sort who'd rather swallow their problems than their pride. A risk-taker in battle. The independent sort. It's likely been difficult enough for him to accept this invitation without the prospect of being fussed over looming ahead.

Which only worries Warsman all the more. Talk about a vicious circle.

He tries to shed the thought with the bulk of his concerns, focusing on the present. He does his best not to question whether or not Sasuke's little joke is really heartfelt and instead gives an obliging little laugh.

"Maybe not. I don't want to have to rescue you from the police station when they arrest you for attempted arson," he answers wryly. Only after he's said it does he realise what an all-too likely scenario this is, considering the politics of the Port, and suddenly it doesn't seem like quite such a clever thing to say.

He pauses awkwardly before trying again, changing the subject this time. He's caught himself off-guard enough in his scramble for something else that there's no guile whatsoever in his words. "I'm glad you're here, anyway. This place can get a little lonely."

[ Today she had to pack up and leave her first place of residence in Siren's Port; this afternoon she's moving into her second. It's a fairly nice place, if an hour's surveying was enough to fill her in on a day of tentative viewings. A small one-person flat with barely enough kitchen to make a meal, a bedroom with curtains not entirely devoted to their light-blocking purpose, a sitting-room whose name states the only feasible activity in that little space, and a bath to accommodate the foetal position. In other words, a less secluded, less pristine version of her apartment in the researchers' accommodation back at the Institute. But it's hers, for a little above the price of renting the Newcomer Apartments for any longer, an acceptable add-on for the proximity of a Subway station.

Those are the images set in her mind as she stares at the building from across the road, through the window of a coffee-shop on the corner of the street. It feels a little like X-ray vision, although she can't remember if she's cleaned the place up in her mind or made it dirtier. Atsuko hopes it's the latter so she'll have less to do. The first task in mind being, of course, moving her belongings in there.

Carrying her leftover coffee in a polystyrene takeaway cup, the first part of her journey-- hauling a suitcase and two large overnight bags (one on a shoulder, the other stacked on the suitcase handles) across the lightly snow-dusted street-- begins. It ends promptly at the kerb where she discovers her upper-arm strength isn't as effective when gravity is working against her, but it lets her make a few observations.

The door to the apartment is already open; the front door, leading through to the ground floor flat and the stairs to the second floor, her floor. Only slightly ajar, like somebody's left for a few seconds, and no key in the lock. Still gripping the handle of the wheeled suitcase, slightly breathless, the cardboard boxes on the pavement only just catch her eye. Is somebody else moving in? Or did the previous resident of her flat only just move out? Slightly stuck, her shawl slipping, Atsuko pauses to consider heading in immediately, or waiting for a landlord to present themselves first. ]

[Dr. Chiba wouldn't be too far off the mark. The original resident moved out a little while ago, leaving half of their things behind, and the landlord's had to hire help to clean the whole damn mess out out of storage- or at least that's the story Warsman was immediately regaled with upon turning up at the building earlier that day. Some people, he's found during his tenure as a handyman, balk at the sight of a masked giant in a poncho turning up on their doorstep; others prefer to note that 'hired help' usually can't object to playing confessional barman for an hour or so.

It's alright, though. He's obviously not expected to engage in any real conversation, and Warsman doesn't particularly mind the wall of complaints that follow him around as he clears the storage area into the waiting van outside. By the time he's down to his last two boxes the landlord's already given up and wandered off to get things ready for his new tenant, leaving him to take them out of the front door and stack them onto a third box waiting outside before carrying the lot to the van.

Even if it's hardly back-breaking work it's still slippery enough out from the snow that Warsman has to concentrate. Between that and the stack of boxes in his arms it's not until he's loaded the van and slammed the doors shut that he even notices the woman standing at the curb- or, rather, before he notices the stack of luggage at her side and the soft clouds of warm air she breathes out, presumably from the effort of dragging it all along.

And there's no way that he can, in good conscience, let her carry on all by herself.]

Ma'am? [He approaches gingerly, head to one side.] Would you like some help?

[ The slam of vehicle doors barely fazes her against the hum of traffic at the end of the road, although she wonders in passing if that might be the ground-floor resident. In which case she'd better stop looking suspicious. Grip tightening on the suitcase handle, she steels herself to give the dead weight another haul (turns out machinery, even delicate equipment, is a lot heavier than it looks), stepping up onto the curb in preparation, but the sound of approaching footsteps catches her attention.

Admittedly, she hadn't been holding any high expectations-- the landlord, a middle-aged family man, would have been easily recognisable after their first meeting if he happened to be here today-- but if she had, they wouldn't have included this giant of a man in the list of faces, towering over her a little more with every step he takes. Not that large men intimidate her much at all. It's more his mask, his grand stature.

Remaining speechless for longer than a second would be rude; thankfully her pre-existing state of bemusement means she doesn't look any more surprised at this stranger than would be normal. ] Ah- [ Glancing back at her already-reddening fingertips clasped around the plastic handle, and back to this intriguing figure; ] Would you mind? I seem to have overestimated myself.

[Warsman is, at least, more or less immune to that reaction by now- the stop, the double-take, the pause as they work out the mask and the voice and the build. For a while he found himself mentally filling in the silence with his own take on the thoughts running through their minds at that moment, but even he had worked out after a little while that it was probably unhealthy. It's still a habit he slips into, of course, but this time the woman's hesitation is brief enough that it doesn't occur to him.

He's not actively trying, then, to keep his tone as mild as it is as he nods, stepping neatly off of the curb.] Not at all. Here- [Curling his fingers around the handle, he hauls it up onto the pavement without so much as a grunt- though it is, admittedly, heavier than he was anticipating. Books, maybe? He doesn't immediately let go.] Where do you want it?

[ Atsuko lets go of the suitcase and steps out of his way, the stiff joints of her fingers getting a little flexing as she pulls her shawl higher around her neck. A happy coincidence: her jaw nearly drops at the way he lifts that one-handedly, like it's nothing. Something in the artificial tone of his voice strikes a note of deep curiosity, so deep it could be fear. She had heard of robots-- cyborgs, even, around the Port, but not encountered one. But this person, regardless of any... modifications seems friendly enough. ]

Um- [ Brought back to the reality of his kind offer, she looks up from the suitcase to his face, uncertain whether to burden him further. ] Actually, I happen to be moving into number 16. This apartment here, on the first floor. [ One travel-bag begins slipping off a shoulder; with a purposeful shove, she hitches the straps back up as she indicates the open door. ] I haven't the keys, yet.

[Ah... so that would make her the new tenant the landlord was talking about? Warsman isn't sure why he didn't guess sooner: goodness only knows he heard about how she's going to be here any minute and I've got to deal with this trash enough times that day already.]

Really? I've just been doing a little clean-up work for the landlord. He should be around somewhere. [The way she's adjusting the bag on her shoulder makes him itch to relieve her of it- he's not sure how much it weighs but he doesn't like the idea of her having to struggle with it nonetheless- but it would be impolite, not to mention suspicious, for him to just outright take it.

An idea strikes him a moment later.] If it's alright with you, I could bring your things in for you while you go and find him.

Is that so? [ Intrigued, she takes a sip of rapidly-cooling coffee, returning his look. Surely it wouldn't be too troublesome to request he take one of the bags cutting into her shoulders and slowly challenging her upper body muscles. At the same time, he's offered to help her with no obligation to do so whatsoever: taking advantage of that now would be impolite. His idea gives her pause for thought. ]

...I'd really appreciate that. He said he would be in the property when I showed, but since you've opened it... [ There's a moment of resistance in her posture, and then the breaking-point: she grimaces and shrugs off a shoulder bag, resting it on the pavement as delicately as she can and crouching to retrieve her NV from it. Her eyes are back on her companion when she stands up, visibly more at ease, both from the lessened burden and the sense of organisation from making a plan of action. ] Would you be able to lead the way indoors while I call him, in case he's out? If you wouldn't mind, what with-- [ She gestures to the suitcase again, a little guilty that she's gone with asking him a different favour now. ]

[Thank goodness. Warsman waits patiently for her to retrieve her things from the bag before picking it up and carefully hitching it up onto his own shoulder with more considered care than he showed the cardboard boxes.]

That's fine. [If you wouldn't mind. He nods briefly, softening his eyes in what he hopes is enough of a smile to put her mind at ease.] It's really not all that heavy for me.

[Hopefully that doesn't just sound like a brag. He steers the lot towards the building and nudges the door open with his foot, carefully positioning the suitcase and first overnight bag against the wall before debating whether or not he should set the second down too or stand and wait for her like a regimental soldier with a backpack. She'll need help getting things up the stairs if everything is in order, though, so...?]

[ Atsuko tries not to stiffen too obviously when he takes the overnight bag, pulling up the straps of her remaining carrier to mask any traces of it in her posture. There are more important things than her NV in that bag; and it isn't a fear of his damaging the sensitive equipment inside that caught her momentarily, but a general wariness. The DC Minis had been stolen before, after all.

But that's surely nothing to worry about right now, and she senses enough warmth in his look to reflect a small, brief smile before following him in, keeping within the tracks of the suitcase wheels. Once everything's indoors she won't have any qualms about leaving items downstairs while she brings others up, one at a time-- it seems like the best way to get settled in on her own once she has a key.

NV open to her ear, dialing tone starting in the tinny Port fashion, Atsuko is careful to shut the door and the cold behind her and glances to her helper-- a smile curving her mouth again, the prelude to gently thanking him and suggesting that that may be all the work that needs doing-- but the landlord picks up and her expression turns immediately businesslike, her tone a little higher than before. ]

It's Chiba. Sorry to call so suddenly, but I'm at the apartment now with your mover...

[The woman enters not long after him, NV to her ear- she gives him the briefest of smiles before apparently someone picks up on the other end. Even if she doesn't get a chance to say anything he's grateful for that one little smile, though he's not sure whether or not it's a dismissal. If it is... well, he might have to pretend he misunderstood. He's not letting her drag everything upstairs by herself.

He rests lightly against the wall, readjusting his poncho where the bag on his shoulder dragged it down his arm a little with its weight. His internal computer means that he's rarely cold, but he finds himself wary of looking messy in front of such a neat, orderly woman. Even as she speaks she seems to have a certain businesslike quality to her that-

Chiba.

And straight away Warsman feels very, very stupid.

Hadn't he seen her on the network only a month or so ago, a 'Dr. Chiba'? True, a lot happened in between then and now, but... quickly, he calls to mind the face of the woman he spoke with: a pretty, serious-looking woman with neat, dark hair and dark eyes. In other words, a perfect match.

Suddenly Warsman doesn't know what to do with himself. It's good to meet her in person, after all, but does he really want her to meet him? This whole time she's probably been under the impression that she was talking to someone- someone not like him. That startled first look creeps to the fore of his thoughts again, shadowing his concern. Part of him wants to make an excuse and leave quickly before she realises, but he knows he can't avoid her forever- unless he plans on never using the video function on his NV ever again.

In the end, he's pinned to the spot by indecision. She's probably already noticed the shift in body language, from the initial stare to the sudden preoccupation with his boots.]

[ Multitasking isn't difficult for her, but, caught between being impolite by ignoring her helper and not being able to give her full attention to the conversation, it almost could prove to be so. Instantly the voice at the other end begins recounting his stresful morning in a way she thinks is an apology jumbled with explanation and blame of the previous resident; she could almost roll her eyes, but peppers the moments of silence with ] Yes. Yes, I see. Completely understandable.

[ She glances to Warsman out the corner of her eye as she leaves the takeaway cup temporarily on the floor and changes hands to hold her cellphone with. It's hopefully implied, by her movement, that she intends for them to go ahead since the owner seems to be making a terrible fuss about it taking even longer for him to get here. The way this acquaintance suddenly stares down, barely thinly veiling some kind of discomfort, grabs her, though. Was it that she closed the door? It's nothing demanding suspicion, but she can't be too careful-- nor does she want to tolerate an awkward silence rather than solve what's causing it. Ignoring the voice for a moment, she covers the receiver. ]

What's the matter?

[At first, of course, she's distracted, but as she glances sidelong at him Warsman feels the first prickle of her gaze settling on him properly. It was probably foolish of him to expect her to miss it; one of the many problems with being so large, he supposes, is that even the smallest of gestures are magnified.

He is, at least, anticipating the question, saving him the embarrassment of being caught off guard, but that doesn't help him answer it. There is, he reasons (or maybe excuses), not very much he can do in the way of explaining while she's still on the phone.]

I-it's fine. Don't worry. [The next thing to do is seize upon a distraction, and the fact that she seems ready to move upstairs will do nicely. The overnight bag is covering the suitcase's smaller handle, but that doesn't bother him especially; he takes the extended handle and lifts the whole thing, steadying it with his free hand so that he can begin his ascent.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

lazy days help me through the hopeless haze

backdated to the 10th? @@

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

20th January, early afternoon

no subject

WHY DON'T I HAVE MORE ICONS

IF I HAD MY COPY OF PAPRIKA I WOULD SO OFFER TO MAKE YOU SOME

THANK YOU I MADE SOME YAY

EXCELLENT THEY LOOK SUTEKI

ARIGATS

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject