mason normandin ( werewolf ) . (biggestbaddest) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2012-12-28 15:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-09-21, mason |
and every move is intentional.
Who: Mason and Jameson.
Where: The police station; the break room.
When: Mid-afternoon.
One of these days Mason was going to have to bug his superiors for a better chair for his desk in the main office. Being as tall as he was it was no good for him to sit in one of the poor little second-hand excuses for chairs that they had out there. For the other officers they probably served their purpose just fine but for Mason there was no real support, it was impossible to get comfortable, and though he understood very well that comfort wasn’t really the point of the things it was still nice to not have to shift every few minutes to try and find a better position. The backrest only came up to the middle of his back, the armrests weren’t much better, and more often than not he felt like he was sitting in a chair designed for a child. Every now and then he had to get up and move around just so his muscles wouldn’t seize up, and right now was one of those times.
Add on to that the need for a fresh cup of coffee and Mason was on his way to the break room with his mug in one hand and his pen in the other. He hadn’t meant to pick it up and bring it with him, he was spinning it lazily between his fingers as he went, letting out a huff of a sigh at the thought of how much paperwork was waiting for him when he got back to his desk. Never-ending, that was how it seemed, a constant supply to his inbox that he always struggled to make a dent in. When he’d joined the police force he hadn’t expected to get stuck doing this. Robert had probably complained about it at some point in the past but his father had gone on and on and on so much sometimes that Mason had long ago perfected the art of shutting it out, silencing the drone so he could concentrate on other things at the dinner table.
Rolling his shoulders to try and get a little life back into them he took a turn and crossed the threshold into the break room, the smell of the cheap filter coffee hitting him immediately. Wonderful. This would be his-- god, how many cups had he even had since he’d arrived this morning? That should have spoken volumes, that he couldn’t remember how much he’d had, but instead of worrying about that he walked up to the counter, rinsed the mug out, and went through the motions of pouring himself another serving. When he heard someone else stepping into the room he took a look at the jug. “There’s enough for one more cup in here, I think.” He looked over his shoulder then, catching sight of someone he was honestly a little surprised to see. It wasn’t often they caught sight of an undercover cop in here. Hopefully he’d used the back door to get into the station.