Re: Kitchen & Faol.
[The suspiciously old cut of his trousers is noted and shoved somewhere underneath the desire for beans cooked, ground, and doused with hot water to form ambrosia. He'll figure it out later when two plus two again reaches four instead of a question mark in his muddled brain.
Is it him or - bubble wrap? - his yawn halts with his mouth hanging open like an attic door. Even fuzzed over by exhaustion, this isn't right.] Rawlings. [Soft slur of suspicious sound as he takes a step back and to the side, distance sought and claimed as one hand pushes into his hair and nails scratch at his scalp. Little zings of pain to wake him up; that is a little better. What is going on with Rawlings' pants?]
Sorry about that. [Blink. Blink.] If you hand over the coffee, I won't ask questions.