un squelette dans ton plaquard, un fantome dans ton salon

[namesnotjack]

WHO: his_instrument and afeatherpillow, with guest star namesnotjack for a few tags at the beginning.
WHERE: Nigel and Alex's brownstone
WHEN: Morning of Jan. 21
WARNINGS: Probably none but updated as needed.
SUMMARY: Katurian shows up, probably miserably, on Nigel's front porch.
FORMAT: Para-intro then choose your poison, ladies.

Comments

[implemented]

Nigel doesn't sleep well, not anymore.

In truth, he has never slept fully, being the type of person who doesn't require a proper night's rest. Before the procedure, his evenings and his early mornings were full of reading and lukewarm cups of tea as he spent long hours at his desk, pouring over his notebooks, fiddling with the insides of animals. Ever since he return, however, things have been different. More often than not nowadays he stays in bed -- the covers pulled tight over the back of his neck, putting pressure on the metal collar sealed onto his skin. Nigel remains until Alex has gone off to work (the sound of the front lock shutting with a soft click), though he still emerges while Alex is in the shower to put the kettle on and make his tea.

On this morning, Nigel can hear dishes being put in the sink through the floor of his bedroom. The tap runs briefly before a soft murmur of quiet shuffling; Alex is moving about. Reluctantly, he begins to pull himself out of bed. His body is different (he can feel it when he

[afeatherpillow]

He spends most of the night walking.

It isn't intentional. He means to take the train home from the hospital, but his legs move mechanically, as though the feelings of muscles and joints can prevent his thoughts from propelling to the surface. His failures. By the time he finds his way back to the subway, his feet are throbbing and his face and fingers are numb with cold. He arrives at his apartment around four in the morning, lets himself fall face first into his bed, and sleeps.

For forty minutes.

He tries to fall back asleep, but by then, it's useless. He tries to write, but by then, it's also useless. Instead, he paces. And paces. Around seven, the sorrow gnaws at him until becomes something like anger at a world that would allow this, at himself for allowing this, and he kicks his kitchen chair, stubs his toe, and decides that the solution involves smashing the chair against the wall, which results in a huge dent, one of the legs snapping off, and some frantic knocks on the front door HEY IDIOT WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE? and

[namesnotjack]

Alex has his shoes on and has decided to wash his own damn dishes when the doorbell rings. It keeps him from staring at the ceiling and trying to track Nigel's path across the upstairs floor just by the sound of creaks and floorboards compressing. He doesn't understand what's going on with Nigel these days -- though that is not really unexpected. If there's one thing Alex has never been good at, it's really understanding other people. What's unexpected in this situatio is that Alex cares somewhat

[implemented]

Nigel is halfway down to the first floor (back hunched uncharacteristically, his chin dipped down low between his shoulders, his hand still covering that damned collar of his) when the doorbell rings. He stands, a little dumbly, at the foot of the stairs, peering round to watch the back of Alex's head as he goes to answer it. The possibility that it's for him is at the front of his mind, but he doesn't really take the time to consider who it is. Instead, he lets his thoughts wander -- groggy and uncoordinated. At the mention of Katurian's name, however, he takes a few shuffling steps forward down the hall; the hand on his neck dropping away to reveal his collar as he catches Alex's attention and then nods at him, silently