Byron’s waggling his fingers in the mirror, contemplating muscle fuel and brain fuel and what little he knows of where each comes from, when there’s a knock at the door.
“Yeah?” he calls out, pulling the robe closed again in a rush.
The door creaks open; it’s Bill, hesitating on the the threshold. Byron closes his eye, shoulders the robe up higher.
“Just wanted to see if you were... well, not okay I guess, but...”
“I know what you mean, and no, there’s not a good word for it.” Chin tucked to his chest, Byron turns to wander further into the room, find the sofa.
“Getting by?”
“Could be worse.” He drops into the cushions; rolls his wrist, runs through articulation on each finger. “At least I don’t have rigor setting in. Though who knows why not. Hell, four minutes without breathing is supposed to doom your brain, right?”
“You would know best,” Bill says, though really he knows too; they all do, after that botched takedown by the docks last year that left their target drenched and too braindead to stand trial. This is what Bill does: he defers, pretends that everyone else knows better than he does, that he isn’t clever in his own right.
Byron frowns, scratches at the center of his palm. Bill might have been in college on a sports scholarship, but he hadn’t been taking underwater basketweaving and grass growing 101.
“I feel like an impossible monster,” he says; resettles himself on the sofa, restless, disappearing down into the robe. “But I also still feel like myself?”
“Maybe you’re both?”
A sharp laugh, so that it’ll sound like he’s joking around. “At least now I can stop wasting time with booze and coffee."
"We won't have to deal with you always stealing all the brownies and chips."
“Guess I don’t have to deal with this anymore either,” Byron says, scooping an envelope off of the endtable and handing it over to Bill. He watches his friend take in the return address, then lift the flap to peek inside; he goes still.
“Yeah,” Bill says after a moment, handing it back. “You’d never pass the physical.”
“See? It’s not all bad.” Byron drops the draft letter back where he found it, laughs a little. "And hey, now you don’t have to worry about me hitting on you anymore.”
There’s a pause, and then a sigh, and then the cushion next to him shifts and that’s the only way he knows Bill’s sat down there because he’s stupidly put himself on the wrong side of the couch, blind side exposed. He’s going to have to get used to that, adapt to the disadvantage it presents.
“I mean,” he says, forging onward, “Look at me, right? Now you’re definitely never going to--”
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timeasmymeasure
part 13a
Date: 2013-05-24 12:26 am (UTC)Byron’s waggling his fingers in the mirror, contemplating muscle fuel and brain fuel and what little he knows of where each comes from, when there’s a knock at the door.
“Yeah?” he calls out, pulling the robe closed again in a rush.
The door creaks open; it’s Bill, hesitating on the the threshold. Byron closes his eye, shoulders the robe up higher.
“Just wanted to see if you were... well, not okay I guess, but...”
“I know what you mean, and no, there’s not a good word for it.” Chin tucked to his chest, Byron turns to wander further into the room, find the sofa.
“Getting by?”
“Could be worse.” He drops into the cushions; rolls his wrist, runs through articulation on each finger. “At least I don’t have rigor setting in. Though who knows why not. Hell, four minutes without breathing is supposed to doom your brain, right?”
“You would know best,” Bill says, though really he knows too; they all do, after that botched takedown by the docks last year that left their target drenched and too braindead to stand trial. This is what Bill does: he defers, pretends that everyone else knows better than he does, that he isn’t clever in his own right.
Byron frowns, scratches at the center of his palm. Bill might have been in college on a sports scholarship, but he hadn’t been taking underwater basketweaving and grass growing 101.
“I feel like an impossible monster,” he says; resettles himself on the sofa, restless, disappearing down into the robe. “But I also still feel like myself?”
“Maybe you’re both?”
A sharp laugh, so that it’ll sound like he’s joking around. “At least now I can stop wasting time with booze and coffee."
"We won't have to deal with you always stealing all the brownies and chips."
“Guess I don’t have to deal with this anymore either,” Byron says, scooping an envelope off of the endtable and handing it over to Bill. He watches his friend take in the return address, then lift the flap to peek inside; he goes still.
“Yeah,” Bill says after a moment, handing it back. “You’d never pass the physical.”
“See? It’s not all bad.” Byron drops the draft letter back where he found it, laughs a little. "And hey, now you don’t have to worry about me hitting on you anymore.”
There’s a pause, and then a sigh, and then the cushion next to him shifts and that’s the only way he knows Bill’s sat down there because he’s stupidly put himself on the wrong side of the couch, blind side exposed. He’s going to have to get used to that, adapt to the disadvantage it presents.
“I mean,” he says, forging onward, “Look at me, right? Now you’re definitely never going to--”
“I never worried about that,” Bill says.