(no subject)
Danny's been working a nice little meal all day. There's a little fowl, a little spicy sauce on top of it, and he's just written Steve's name down on a pretty little sheet of paper that might, one day, give him some kind of decision power -- so he may be crazy, but at least he's gonna be crazy as he goes down swinging. He's wearing a pair of jeans, blue casual shirt with the collar awry as he plates several pieces of the spicy chicken, dolloping the sauce onto the rice as well and setting out the plates.
"You," he informs Zulu, "do not get such spicy things, because your little dog stomach would probably go kaboom and I do not need to clean the walls or cope with my unending grief," he rattles on as he cleans up the kitchen, aware that Steve is probably still at work.
Maybe he hasn't even seen the notice. Maybe he's still with the ITF. Maybe he's out swimming laps around the island, Danny doesn't know. "Hey, c'mere, boy," Danny coaxes, crouching down to beckon Zulu into his arms. He lifts him up, toting him around the hut as he wanders, tidying up any stray messes.
"You," he informs Zulu, "do not get such spicy things, because your little dog stomach would probably go kaboom and I do not need to clean the walls or cope with my unending grief," he rattles on as he cleans up the kitchen, aware that Steve is probably still at work.
Maybe he hasn't even seen the notice. Maybe he's still with the ITF. Maybe he's out swimming laps around the island, Danny doesn't know. "Hey, c'mere, boy," Danny coaxes, crouching down to beckon Zulu into his arms. He lifts him up, toting him around the hut as he wanders, tidying up any stray messes.