Re: Quicklog, Clem's lakehouse: Graham R/Shane A
Fuck you. [Shane blinked slow and sleepy as he rolled onto his side on the bed, too fucking lazy to even keep sitting up without support for his spine, and he sighed. Stretched out, one arm fucking stuffed beneath the way too fucking many pillows, and he looked at Graham, watching him or whatever as he looked at Joy, quiet as fucking anything in that crib of hers. She was a good baby, yeah? He knew that. He'd watched her on his own for weeks, and unlike his own fucking siblings, who cried all the fucking time, almost every last one of them, Joy was a sweet little thing. She slept like a fucking ten-pound rock, too.
He sniffed again, moving a hand up to pick at his nails, carving dirt out on incisors, his oral fucking fixation, as always, in full swing when he didn't have a cigarette between his teeth.] Talked to Clementine, yeah? [Shane shifted again on the bed, onto his back, sleep-blue eyes on the ceiling.] I'm going to take her somewhere or whatever, before fucking Valentine's Day. [Shane had never been good at keeping secrets, especially not from fucking Graham. He talked.
And he wanted Graham to know this, yeah? Maybe it'd fucking do something to jumpstart the moron's brain.] She thinks you hate her now or some shit. I told her you were a fucking freak.