The morning after Fiona's unexpected
visit, Indy left his makeshift bed at a fairly reasonable hour. Or at least, a reasonable hour for him. Most people would probably consider it their lunch hour. So as not to wake his guest, he used the guest bathroom to shower and grabbed some clean clothes out of the drier
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No body lying next to her, so that's a start she supposes.
Oh.
Memory floods back, the warm pounding of the waves around her knees, the crunch of sand under her feet, the fifth of Red Breast she downed pretty much all by herself. That would explain the hard glaze of light around everything and the brittle feeling in her skull.
And the rest of it.
She takes a deep breath and sighs. Mmm, coffee. She slips out of bed and staggers to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face and comb her hair back out of her eyes. Her jeans are draped in the shower, dry but reeking of sea water. Sweats and a wife beater it is.
~~~
She hangs back in the doorway of the bedroom, watching him work. She can be quiet as a dormouse when she wants, and she slips behind him, and snatches a piece of toast off a plate. "Yet again, Doctor Jones, what was briefly yours is now mine."
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"Nice move," he comments, staying focused on the task in hand. "For a dame."
Seasoning completed, he now turns and greets Fiona with an easygoing smile.
"Morning. How's the head?"
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She swallows her toast and chases it with a sip from his coffee cup.
"That smells delicious."
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"Watch it," he chuckles. "This ain't a commune, y'know. I have other cups."
To illustrate, he gets one out of the cupboard and fills it from the carafe. It happens to be a soup bowl-sized example, emblazoned with cartoon images of a classic Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote chase.
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