Fact: Liz steps out of the closet with a carton of skim milk in hand, so she could eat breakfast now.
Fact: While down by the lake is a pretty okay spot to think, it's damn cold out back at Milliways.
Fact: Liz wasn't really all that hungry, anyway.
(Fact: She forgets sometimes, mostly after she's been at Milliways for a while, that time crawls at the Bureau while hours pass at the bar.)
Liz steps out of the closet with a carton of skim milk in hand. The room is as she left it, dimly-lit and silent, with Red unmoving in bed. She frowns. Something isn't --
There are a host of yellow eyes peering at her from atop the bank of televisions.
"You can come down now, 'fraidy cats," Liz murmurs, reaching up and gently scratching the first furry chin that comes to hand. The gray tabby leaps down and mewls, and his fellows follow suit. The cats aren't stupid; they've learned (A) to hide, and (B) not to hide under the bed, when people begin lighting on fire.
Suppressing a shiver, Liz crosses the room -- boots scuffing quietly -- and puts the milk in its rightful place in the fridge. Her bowl, spoon, and box of Cheerios are right where she left them, and she considers them (and the daily routine that they symbolize) for a sober moment -- and then she walks back over to the bed, sits down on the edge, and starts unlacing her one boot that was actually tied.
Screw routine. Maybe the walk in the cold was helpful after all.
(The clock blinks 05:36.)
Fact: While down by the lake is a pretty okay spot to think, it's damn cold out back at Milliways.
Fact: Liz wasn't really all that hungry, anyway.
(Fact: She forgets sometimes, mostly after she's been at Milliways for a while, that time crawls at the Bureau while hours pass at the bar.)
Liz steps out of the closet with a carton of skim milk in hand. The room is as she left it, dimly-lit and silent, with Red unmoving in bed. She frowns. Something isn't --
There are a host of yellow eyes peering at her from atop the bank of televisions.
"You can come down now, 'fraidy cats," Liz murmurs, reaching up and gently scratching the first furry chin that comes to hand. The gray tabby leaps down and mewls, and his fellows follow suit. The cats aren't stupid; they've learned (A) to hide, and (B) not to hide under the bed, when people begin lighting on fire.
Suppressing a shiver, Liz crosses the room -- boots scuffing quietly -- and puts the milk in its rightful place in the fridge. Her bowl, spoon, and box of Cheerios are right where she left them, and she considers them (and the daily routine that they symbolize) for a sober moment -- and then she walks back over to the bed, sits down on the edge, and starts unlacing her one boot that was actually tied.
Screw routine. Maybe the walk in the cold was helpful after all.
(The clock blinks 05:36.)
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