It's all AU.

John was restless in his skin, waves of prickly tension breaking over his upper back, settling in his neck, his shoulders, along his upper arms.  He was leaning, forehead resting on cool glass, against a shop window displaying knives and various sonic devices. The shop was shut. His hands flexed against the glass, either side of his head, the tension apparent for anyone close enough to care to see.

A hand formed slowly into a fist, and he thumped the toughened glass, setting off a shrieking alarm inside the shop. John pushed off the glass, and pressed a few buttons on his wriststrap, silencing the racket. "You can just shut the fuck up. Whiny, fucking, bastard thing."

Whether he was talking about the alarm or himself was anyone's guess.

He suddenly whirled on his feet as he heard someone behind him, hands already gone back to fists, punchy and ready to fight.

And some days didn't go so well.

She'd played hard, too hard, and was tired. Her shields were slipping, she was inundated with thoughts and emotions and psychic static on every side, which was frustrating, which was exhausting, which. It was a vicious cycle. She just wanted to go somewhere quiet or get close to someone who could help her hide, but focusing was harder than it had been in weeks.

She was on the verge of crying. Or mentally screaming for help, which she didn't want to do because she'd been *fine*, she could do this. She felt about two.