exsiliumlogs | [open] when I came down, the dawn poured into me

Date & Time: May 28, morning/afternoon
Location: Room 509 & the Hold
Characters: Saul & whoever's around
Summary: In which Saul has lost the ability to deal.
Warnings: All aboard the angst express ~~BOO HOO~~ WOO WOO~ CW for a panic attack. Also: Stephanie.

A — CLOSED to the residents of apartment 509;

[Saul is making pancakes at 5:45 AM because he's lost control of his life.

Or, more accurately, because he's awake and hungry and they just so happen to have the proper ingredients and if he doesn't do something aside from flopping from side to side in a futile attempt to get a little more sleep, he's pretty sure he might actually go crazy.

So: PANCAKES.

He's trying to be quiet, but he's chugged so much coffee that his hands are shaking and there's a good chance he might —

A pan clatters to the floor.

Oops.]

B — OPEN to whoever might run in to him;

[A little later, after he's fueled up on more caffeine and some syrup he's fairly certain is over a millennium old (call him skeptical, but he knows better than to believe, even for a second, that Mrs. Butterworth is still a thing), he makes his rounds.

First, he checks the office. It's still too early; no one's there, and it's too quiet. He tries sitting at his desk to meditate, but within seconds his leg is bouncing wildly, the toe of his wingtip digging into the carpet underfoot.

He refuses to believe that this is legitimate anxiety. That feeling clawing at the pit of his stomach — nope. Old syrup and crappy coffee, nothing more. It's certainly not the nightmares he's been having. It has nothing to do with Jesse. It's not the image of Stephanie, dead. It's not the possibility of Walter showing up and everything going to Hell.

When he hits his knee on the underside of his desk, he decides to head elsewhere.

He arrives in one of the Hold's training rooms shortly thereafter, where he checks to make sure he hasn't lost his ability to handle a weapon since getting taken out by one. His aim's a little off, but that's nothing new. His grip is firm, steady. Surprisingly so. He's not yelling at anything this time, not pausing to make snarky comments no one (correction: no one he can see) will hear — he's all focus this morning, to the point where he falls into a steady rhythm of load, fire, reload. Click, bang, click. It's almost hypnotic.

Almost.

The energy high starts to die down after about half an hour. When the momentum stops, so does Saul, slammed with a sudden wave of panic that makes him fumble with his gun.

If the Initiative can raise people from the dead, why can't they make them forget dying in the first place? That's what he wants to know.

He also wants to know why he decided to do this in one of his suits. With a shrug, he sheds his jacket, and he's soon sitting heavily on one of the benches outside the training area with his sleeves rolled up, tie undone, head in his hands. If he had the option, he'd have gone to the safehouse to do this, have his little moment of weakness in private rather than out here in the open, but the funny thing about walking is that it requires breathing.

And that's a bit of a problem, at the moment.

It's times like these he really misses the luxuries of his office, like the drawer full of benzos he kept just in case.

"Just in case what?" Francesca had asked.

This, he thinks. In case of this.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

_{( Remy usually doesn’t sleep in the apartment. He doesn’t use it for much, actually, except storage. His space is filled with trinkets and artifacts from various missions, piles of coins and a crate of stolen fine wine, hidden under his bed. His nights he spends on rooftops, under the rain, or with Ygritte. It’s a simple, comfortable, and utterly impractical life. But it’s his.

What brought him back, last night? Who knows. But at about 3 am he crashed onto his bed at an odd angle, and fell into a hazy sleep. And then some asshole decides to make pancakes and be way too loud at not-even-6 in the morning.

Remy stumbles into the common area, pulling on a shirt and looking half-asleep. He’s glaring, an unnerving look given his bright red eyes. )}

Y’know what time it is, homme?

[Yeah, that is unnerving. Saul pauses in returning the offending pan to its proper place, half-twisted toward one of the cabinets when he catches sight of Remy.

At least he looks like he's sorry about the noise.]

Yeah, my bad.

_{( Remy's a fraction more awake, now, and he takes in the scene and Saul's face and general countenance. He then proceeds not to care too much about it, at least not obviously. He drapes himself into a chair, brushes the hair back from his face with both hands and yawns gracefully. )}

So. What's cookin'?

[Looks like Saul's going to have company. He gives Remy a quick once-over, a little wary, then moves to retrieve not one, but two plates.]

Pancakes. You hungry?

_{( He quirks a brow. )}

Why not?

Great.

[For a little while, he focuses on cooking. Once there's a healthy stack ready on the plate that will be Remy's, he waves a hand to beckon him over.]

C'mon, Sleeping Beauty.

_{( Remy takes a step over, leaning around Saul to inspect the pancakes. )}

Productive insomnia?

You bet.

[The pancakes look... like pancakes. There's butter out. Syrup, too, though — again — Saul has no bloody idea where it came from. At least the seal wasn't broken?]

But does it count as insomnia if I slept a little?

Who knows? I ain't a doctor, homme.

_{( But the thought makes him miss Cecelia, so he pushes it away, grabs the syrup and examines it. Then he mixes that, and the butter, over the pancakes before heading to one of the cupboards and grabbing a flask of... something. )}

[A flask, huh?

Saul arches an eyebrow, expression flitting somewhere between amusement and skepticism.]

I guess "it's 5 o'clock somewhere" applies to AM too, huh?

Way I see it, I'm not even in the right century. Time shouldn't really apply.

_{( But he does a curious thing, and mixes a bit of the syrup with the liquor. It changes the consistency, a bit, but he seems to be pleased with the result. )}

[...hmmm.

This is the look of an intrigued lawyer.]

That's a good point.

[A note of curiosity in his voice, maybe even hopefulness. Share, Remy?]

_{( Remy takes his concoction and slides it over, nodding to Saul. )}

Most a' my points are good. Least, I think so.

[Let's see how good this point is —

Oh.

Yeah, okay. Saul will believe him from now on. From around a mouthful of pancake:] Where'd you get the genius idea to mix this?

_{( Remy takes a bite, pauses for a moment while he swallows. There's something strange, about spending time with this guy. Cohabitating is one thing; coming together to make delicious too-early breakfast is quite another. )}

I happen ta be a culinary prodigy.

...either that, or I've jus' lived long enough ta pick up a few things along the way.

Or your life has been such that imbibing alcohol at six in the morning is completely healthy, acceptable behavior.

[JUST AN OBSERVATION. Saul's not judging.]

I don't much care about acceptable. An' you have ta admit, it tastes damn good.

What about healthy?

[He turns his attention back to the stove. It's entirely possible that he's making way too many pancakes. Maybe Saul's expecting an army...?]

_{( Remy quirks a brow at the quantity, but doesn't comment. )}

I like ta live dangerous.

Apparently.

[And cue a little silence, which Saul follows up with:]

So.

[He hasn't been a very good roommate lately, what with the whole never-being-around thing. And when he's been around, he's kept mostly to himself.]

My aim's much improved, FYI.

_{( Remy's got a faceful of waffles, which he swallows down before giving Saul a knowing look and canting his head, teasing. )}

Up ta broad side a' the barn level, are we?

Ha, ha.

[Saul will give Remy a little smirk for the attempt, but his voice is flat.]

No. I can actually hit the target now! Where's my marksmanship badge?

_{( Remy pulls a coin out of somewhere, snaps his fingers so it spins in the air and fully expects Saul to catch it. )}

There y'go.

[Someone's throwing money at him? You bet he's gonna catch it. Hi, sudden catlike reflexes.

He grins, examines the coin, then pockets it.]

Thanks. Man, alcohol and money — we should do this more often.

Y'just described my life, homme.

_{( An exaggeration, but not much of one. )}

(no subject)

5055034455 - 2013-06-27 00:59 (UTC) - Expand

solitaire - 2013-06-27 15:12 (UTC) - Expand

5055034455 - 2013-06-29 13:29 (UTC) - Expand

solitaire - 2013-06-30 23:56 (UTC) - Expand

mmm delicious slowtime.

5055034455 - 2013-07-07 12:44 (UTC) - Expand

solitaire - 2013-07-13 18:55 (UTC) - Expand

5055034455 - 2013-07-15 01:50 (UTC) - Expand