rabbits i drew a while ago

I finished the book today and wow, General Woundwort is such a magnificent bastard I love him.

Can you run? I think not… I think not

these two rule like emperors over my autistic little peanut brain...

You snatch the phone out of his hand and throw it over the fence and into the bushes. “Osita what the hell—“ “You need to stop.” “We were supposed to close! Everything was ready and then the bank--“ “Babe, it’s a global crash. Something to do with Windows and Crowdstrike.” “What is Crowdstrike?” “I don’t know, but it’s all over the news. All the airports are bricked. Hospitals are cancelling surgeries.” He gnaws at his lower lip, his face a constellation of worry. “My phone-“ Even over the fence and caught somewhere in the decorative shrubbery it’s still yelling out its idiot song. “I know. It’s been blowing up all morning. Can you fix it?” He breaks for the gate, meaning to dig through the Italian cypresses that stand sentinel outside the fence, and you plant yourself in his path, hands on hips, and his shoulders sag. “This shit with the computers, can you fix it? You got some sort of hacker genius on that phone?” “No.” He says, defeated. His hands fidget, twist against each other, fingers squeezing themselves. It happens when he’s overwhelmed. When he’s uncertain. You’ve seen it before. You lace your fingers through his to still them. Hold his folded hands against your sternum, so he can feel your breath. Feel your heart. He’s so scared sometimes, despite how he moves through the world, despite the story he tells himself, and everyone else. Except for you. You know him in a way that he doesn’t show anyone else. You know to take his hands and sling his phone over the fence. “Osita, there is so much riding on this deal,” he says. “I know. Baby, this is everywhere. No one can do anything, it’s not just you and it’s not just Barry. 911 is down for fucks sake.” He blinks out you. “Emergency services? Really?” “Really.” His forehead scrunches and those lovely dark eyes go far off for a moment. “Fuck,” he says, “What do we do?” “We go to Stargazer’s and get a couple of those chocolate croissants and then we go to the beach.” Nico pulls you into his arms and you lean into him, rest your head into the join of his neck and shoulder. He huffs laughter against the crown of your head. “Must be nice,” rumbled through his throat and chest, “Being right all the time.” He draws back to look at you, his hands on your upper arms, and there’s your Nico, all dimpled cheeks and warn eyes and steady smile. “It really is.”