[The nights that James wishes for sleep the most is when it eludes him most readily.
Tonight he stays at his estate in Derbyshire, and having finished his normal routine during the day, he's retired to his bedroom to rest. It's early yet, especially for him, but his throat feels tight tonight, his breathing shallow. His work in the gardens, perhaps, what with ozones and allergens, may have instigated it further, he thinks. His breathing does not suffer nearly as much as it did when he was younger, but there are days where it's worse than usual. Today is that day. Tonight is that night.
It's more uncomfortable than worrisome, more annoyance than concern. He's not even used his inhaler once tonight (though that was more out of pride than reason), and with enough focus, with enough... change, he can often will it away. Force his body to obey, though for some reason his throat and lungs were more stubborn than the rest, impossible to ever completely "fix". There's nothing James hates worse than spending a night tossing and turning. He had flipped on the telly, but nothing was of interest to him; the screen became nothing more than white noise, volume turned down, lights flickering with fluorescent movement as adverts played with their usual fervency.
Finally, he gets up and opens the door to the balcony overlooking the back of the house. He steps out and inhales the night air, the coolness feeling good in his lungs, and when he opens his eyes, a sliver of a moon peers down at him. He frowns.
In his pajama pockets, plaid and loose-fitting, his mobile buzzes. James' brows knit in vague surprise, and he fishes the device out, unlocking it and looking down at the message on the screen. He reads it more than once, twice, three times. It wasn't rare to receive texts from his bride-to-be (it wasn't even uncommon, on some days), but it was the content that confused him. He knew she was in town, but the message had little to nothing to do with that -- was she drunk?
He shakes his head, sliding the phone back into his pocket. Leans against the railing, looking out over the grounds for a full five minutes. Then, out of boredom, or out of nagging curiosity, he fishes his phone out once more and replies. Nothing better to do, after all.]
Like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker.
[He's quoting something. Someone. He doesn't suppose Lucy would care either way. Then, something more mundane:]
Tell me about your current apocalypse and its feasibility, before I suffocate to death.
no subject
Tonight he stays at his estate in Derbyshire, and having finished his normal routine during the day, he's retired to his bedroom to rest. It's early yet, especially for him, but his throat feels tight tonight, his breathing shallow. His work in the gardens, perhaps, what with ozones and allergens, may have instigated it further, he thinks. His breathing does not suffer nearly as much as it did when he was younger, but there are days where it's worse than usual. Today is that day. Tonight is that night.
It's more uncomfortable than worrisome, more annoyance than concern. He's not even used his inhaler once tonight (though that was more out of pride than reason), and with enough focus, with enough... change, he can often will it away. Force his body to obey, though for some reason his throat and lungs were more stubborn than the rest, impossible to ever completely "fix". There's nothing James hates worse than spending a night tossing and turning. He had flipped on the telly, but nothing was of interest to him; the screen became nothing more than white noise, volume turned down, lights flickering with fluorescent movement as adverts played with their usual fervency.
Finally, he gets up and opens the door to the balcony overlooking the back of the house. He steps out and inhales the night air, the coolness feeling good in his lungs, and when he opens his eyes, a sliver of a moon peers down at him. He frowns.
In his pajama pockets, plaid and loose-fitting, his mobile buzzes. James' brows knit in vague surprise, and he fishes the device out, unlocking it and looking down at the message on the screen. He reads it more than once, twice, three times. It wasn't rare to receive texts from his bride-to-be (it wasn't even uncommon, on some days), but it was the content that confused him. He knew she was in town, but the message had little to nothing to do with that -- was she drunk?
He shakes his head, sliding the phone back into his pocket. Leans against the railing, looking out over the grounds for a full five minutes. Then, out of boredom, or out of nagging curiosity, he fishes his phone out once more and replies. Nothing better to do, after all.]
Like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker.
[He's quoting something. Someone. He doesn't suppose Lucy would care either way. Then, something more mundane:]
Tell me about your current apocalypse and its feasibility, before I suffocate to death.