John Crichton (hooman_from_erp) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-09-12 19:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, !plot |
Who: Crichton and McKay. And the boogeymen in their heads
Where: Dreams
What: Sweet dreams til sunbeams find you, sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you...
When: Thursday
Rating: Weird.
Open: Frell, no!
Status: WIP
Crichton hadn't slept for about three days. He'd apparently been on autopilot when it came to drinking water because there were used mugs and glasses all over the apartment, but he hadn't eaten or spoken to anyone (Harv did not count, no matter what that freakazoid said) or looked at his cell phone or anything. He'd even forgotten that he was helping in Manhattan.
Just like back on Moya, he'd gone and gotten caught up in working on the Equations again, factoring in the corrections Bruce had pointed out to see how that would change things as well as the fact that Pilot wasn't there to bitch at him all the time and help every now and again. The next thing he knew, he hadn't slept for over 75 hours, he had ink all over his fingers and his teeshirt was all kinds of funky. And he'd written all over the walls again, having run out of paper at some point. Frelling marvelous. He was starving. And he was exhausted. And, yeah, all kinds of funky. Shower, food and then bed.
Twenty minutes later he was crashed on top of his bed, snoring softly and wearing nothing but a towel. He dreamt, as usual, about Moya and Aeryn, his module (he missed his baby so bad, little wonder it always showed up in his dreams) and her prowler, and everything was bathed in the soft blue light that only a wormhole could create.