cv (ephemeras) wrote in repose, @ 2016-07-26 14:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, atticus mcvickers, janus allen, steve mcrory |
B&B: Janus, Steve, Atticus
Who: Janus, Steve, Atticus
What: Steve moves in
Where: The B&B
When: Fuzzy nowish
Warnings/Rating: I doubt it
Atticus looked like he'd spent a night in barn, because Atticus had spent a night in a barn. His baggy jeans were dirty and smelled like raw meat. His gray shirt had dirt at the end of long sleeves. His hair was a rumpled mess, his hand having passed over it repeatedly in the night. His left eye looked like high school had made a return; bruised, angry and swollen, at least he could open said eye without squinting now. He wore his glasses, despite the discomfort, because the thought it might obscure the garish display of colors against his skin. His palms were bruised.
He was tired. But the sound of the trombone made him grin blearily. At least one good thing happened.
Atticus wasn't present when the man at the trailer park ate his gun, but he knew the man was dead. Hadn't seen it in the news. Hadn't picked up a paper. But Atticus knew. He'd known as soon as he returned to the carriage house, black eye and no painkillers for PJ. There, on the coffee table, he'd found a mountain of pharmaceuticals. Atticus knew the man was dead.
It also explained how tired he felt as he walked into the B&B proper. He was planning on grabbing a cup of coffee from the kitchen and, hopefully, holing up in his office with Jack Kerouac's letters to Allen Ginsberg. The air around him was warmer than usual, as if his haunts understood they should behave. His mood was sour.