Post by Sonneillon V. on Dec 28, 2006 12:30:25 GMT -5
A flick of the light switch illuminated the somewhat spartan contours of his room, but the simplicity of the setting (not to mention the muted color scheme) was both welcoming and soothing to the throbbing headache he was nursing. Crawford kicked the door shut behind him. Though he was fairly certain no one else was home, leaving the door open was an invitation for invasion. His fingers tugged wearily at the knot in his tie and managed to loosen it, but he didn't bother fully unknotting it before pulling it over his head and dropping it on one of the hooks next to the closet.
He left his clothes scattered around the room, over the back of a chair, across the desk, and hanging from the closet doorknob, shoes kicked halfway under the bed. Uncharacteristic of him, but he could clean it up in the morning, and besides, what was the point of investing in wrinkle-proof clothing if you were never going to make an effort to wrinkle it?
Flannel was a wonderful fabric. What made it wonderful, he reflected as he clumsily pulled on a set of pants made of it, was not only the softness that wore into it after a few years and a few hundred washings, but also the way it retained scents forever. These, for instance, smelled like Colorado. He pulled on an old thermal sweatshirt and set his glasses on the nightstand, flopping back on his bed with a heavy sigh.
The disadvantage of being precognitive was that you knew everything that was going to happen before it happened, but you couldn't change it. So when you knew people were going to make pig-headed and assholish decisions, but nothing you did or said would change their minds, there was a sort of impotent frustration that just... festered. It was festering now, right between his eyes, behind the bridge of his nose. He could use a few extra-strength Tylenol, but they were all the way in the bathroom, and he didn't particularly feel like getting up at the moment.
He just lay there for a long moment, drinking in the silence while he had it, before the others got home and ruined it. There was still work he needed to get done by the end of the week, which was coming up fast, but that could wait until tomorrow. He didn't feel guilty about being lazy. If he tried to work now, the quality of it would suffer greatly from his general misery and exhaustion. Tomorrow... assuming he got a decent amount of sleep... he'd be fresh.
He didn't mean to drift off. Honestly. He had missed a meal and he needed to turn that light off, besides. And he'd thought about maybe getting through another chapter of the book he was working on. But all those plans dissolved along with his consciousness, leaving him asleep like a stone sprawled across the top of his covers.
He left his clothes scattered around the room, over the back of a chair, across the desk, and hanging from the closet doorknob, shoes kicked halfway under the bed. Uncharacteristic of him, but he could clean it up in the morning, and besides, what was the point of investing in wrinkle-proof clothing if you were never going to make an effort to wrinkle it?
Flannel was a wonderful fabric. What made it wonderful, he reflected as he clumsily pulled on a set of pants made of it, was not only the softness that wore into it after a few years and a few hundred washings, but also the way it retained scents forever. These, for instance, smelled like Colorado. He pulled on an old thermal sweatshirt and set his glasses on the nightstand, flopping back on his bed with a heavy sigh.
The disadvantage of being precognitive was that you knew everything that was going to happen before it happened, but you couldn't change it. So when you knew people were going to make pig-headed and assholish decisions, but nothing you did or said would change their minds, there was a sort of impotent frustration that just... festered. It was festering now, right between his eyes, behind the bridge of his nose. He could use a few extra-strength Tylenol, but they were all the way in the bathroom, and he didn't particularly feel like getting up at the moment.
He just lay there for a long moment, drinking in the silence while he had it, before the others got home and ruined it. There was still work he needed to get done by the end of the week, which was coming up fast, but that could wait until tomorrow. He didn't feel guilty about being lazy. If he tried to work now, the quality of it would suffer greatly from his general misery and exhaustion. Tomorrow... assuming he got a decent amount of sleep... he'd be fresh.
He didn't mean to drift off. Honestly. He had missed a meal and he needed to turn that light off, besides. And he'd thought about maybe getting through another chapter of the book he was working on. But all those plans dissolved along with his consciousness, leaving him asleep like a stone sprawled across the top of his covers.
