#constcllaticns

icb don is mine now

          The workshop isn’t empty ------ it’s still locked, the way he left it, but it’s very much occupied. Artemy feels her presence before he actually sees her. Of course she would somehow find her way in, little miracle worker that she is. His mouth parts, and then closes again. Looking away from Clara, he sets his bag on the bench and begins to sort through it.

Scrabble, it turned out, wasn’t that bad of a game. He’d been skeptical when Diana first suggested it, but it was just challenging enough to be intellectually stimulating and yet not enough to be overly complicated like Monopoly (“but what happened to the Landlord’s game,” he bemoaned as his fancy top hat was sent to jail). Still, Steve’s brow furrowed as the ‘y’ went down, claiming the coveted triple-word score spot. Immediately, he said, “That’s not a word.” 

Right? Steve hated that he even had to doubt himself but sometimes it was hard to tell. People said the strangest things these days, abbreviating words and squishing names together. Just because everyone knew what they meant, though, didn’t mean they could actually be played. Not unless they were officially in the dictionary. 

         He’s really not sure how the cat got over here in the first place — if it managed to walk across the bridge while it was up, or if Tobias had brought it over here for… whatever reason. He knows who’s feeding it though when he finds the paper plate with food left outside. Aiden stares down at the tiny mewling thing, still a bit too skinny and surprisingly friendly. It rubs against his leg, clearly expecting more food from him.

The lift to the bunker activates, sending it darting back to the shadows with an offended howl. He watches it go, reaching up to rub his face.  “…Good instincts, at least.” Turning around, he waits for the crate to lower all the way and Clara to step outside.

“You still haven’t said where we’re going.”

          He’s really not sure how the cat got over here in the first place --- if it managed to walk across the bridge while it was up, or if Tobias had brought it over here for... whatever reason. He knows who’s feeding it though when he finds the paper plate with food left outside. Aiden stares down at the tiny mewling thing, still a bit too skinny and surprisingly friendly. It rubs against his leg, clearly expecting more food from him.

The lift to the bunker activates, sending it darting back to the shadows with an offended howl. He watches it go, reaching up to rub his face.  “...Good instincts, at least.”  Turning around, he waits for the crate to lower all the way and Clara to step outside.

    to say the least, Porter wasn’t expecting this, not at all. he had just finished going through some routine exercises to maintain his weight-class for the local boxing team. already trying to catch his breath & a hot sweaty mess of a man, he had just been asked from a co-worker for an invitation to her place for some fun. was it recommended? perhaps, they weren’t soldiers & the whole entirety of the ‘New Mexico’ case had still shaken him up. James Porter, of all people, the man who would hold off an pushing offensive force with nothing more than a shotgun, a grin & gas that eats people down to the bone, from the inside at least, was shaken by the ‘infection’ at Truth & Consequence.

    leaning into the wall, an elbow propped against the wall, hazel hues blink as he had began to process her offer. though, he honestly didn’t take long to come up with a response. a hand clamps itself around the loop of the belt resting on his trousers. an eyebrow raised with an husky growl to his tone, he’s been eyeing Meghan for awhile, with respect as a comrade but also little sneak peeks while they were both in the training room. honestly, he was surprised she hadn’t gone & asked Seamus, seeing how he was quite large, much larger than him. unless, ladies just weren’t looking for bulk? then perhaps Mark would be a better match?

Nightmares weren’t something Douglas usually had. Especially not nightmares of what had been the worst night of his career. And especially not ones that had him catapulting from his bed, screaming bloody murder for a name that hadn’t crossed his tongue in... oh, gods, how long had it been?

“Fuck,” he respectfully offered, his voice hoarse, but still keeping quiet. “Guess it was too much to hope nobody heard. Probably the first big one in... what, three or four years? Heh, new record.” After a few moments the thought finally crossed his mind that she was offering him a mug of tea. He nodded, taking the second mug, and sipped gratefully. He didn’t really care what flavor it was right now, but it was hot, and wow he was cold. Doug hadn’t even computed how cold he was until now.

Well-honed reflex, I guess. Take care of the threat, then worry about yourself.