Re: Bench near the pool table: Michael C & Reece E
Michael came through the front door with his hands in his pockets, huddled against the cold. He was wearing...
Well, he was wearing just what he'd been wearing when he fell through the window. Tan coat, scarf around the neck against the chill that evening a month before. He and Clem had just gotten into the room when the fight broke out, when she started screaming and shoving him.
He squeezed an eye shut, wincing. No, not that. Not right now. His head was pounding, but he didn't look like a person who'd fallen out the top floor of a historic building and lived to tell the tale. Not a scratch on him, nothing out of the ordinary.
Except.
There was something about him that was different. It was almost impossible to put your finger on, but it was there if you looked closely enough, hanging in his coat, curled foil tight around the back of his neck. Something that clung of the extranormal. Something that smelled a little like the ocean. A long look.
But that was all. It was out of the corner of the eye - it was primarily unseen.
As for Michael, he was confused before anything else. He liked to have an explanation he could fully comprehend, always had, even when he was young and flirting with disaster in extremely destructive ways. He liked to know the why. Why couldn't he remember the last month?
Not a clue. No idea. Which was going to make it even more difficult to explain to his boss.
He couldn't exactly say what had happened with Clem, not after what Reece had told him. This whole mix up with a corpse was bizarre. How had she walked away bloody, and here he was without a scratch? If he didn't know better, he'd think he pushed her out the window himself.
It wasn't that a drink was going to solve any of these problems, but there was at least a chance it would balm them, make them seem less jagged and intense, easier to sort through. If he could just sit and think for a second.
He'd never been happier to see Reece than he was as he approached his table, pulling the scarf from his neck. Tired, but clean, alert, and not the least bit hurt. Where, for the last month, had Michael Clary gone?
"Reece," he said, sitting down heavily across from him. "Hey."