NIGHT 54: West Wing, South Hall 1-A
[From here.]It was probably a good time to declare everyone legally dead, because this was the fourth hallway in a row. This was what being proactive felt like. Yes. He was going to roll with that. Proactive and paranoid as hell, that was him
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Or tried to move on, anyway, given that Alaric fell right into him before he could take two more steps. Damon spun around on instinct at the touch. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and let out an annoyed breath-and a flash of panic ran through him, so fast he barely had time to react, but noticeable enough that he threw a sharp look at Rick. What?
He brushed it off. Not what he needed right now.
But okay, what was going on with Rick? Smooth wasn't ever a word Damon would've applied to him, but the guy didn't exactly make a habit of reenacting a bad slapstick comedy, either. As far as Damon was aware, Rick was fully capable of keeping his balance for longer than half a damn second. Otherwise, he'd have impaled himself on his own stake several times over by now.
Impaled himself without any help from Damon, that was. Details, details.
"There are shoes in your closet," he replied impatiently. "And if I knew what they were, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we. They were-mutated lumps. With teeth. Trust me, you don't want to see them up close."
Oh, well. He supposed he could count himself lucky they hadn't gotten to chewing on his liver. Would it matter if they had? Maybe. He'd prefer to never find out, but he wouldn't be surprised if he did one day. Possibly tonight, given the way things were going.
He swept around another corner into the main hall.
[going here]
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