Fic. Dammit.
Great. Yet another WIP. Sometimes I have nightmares wherein the different characters come and stand around my bed, looking pale and miserable, sentence fragments and bits of words painting their skins like half-finished tattoos.
My subconscious is a scary place.
Something new . . . a series of short, connected snippets. See what you think.
Rodney has never willingly been to see Kate Heightmeyer, so he considers it something of a personal triumph that he’s now physically in her office.
It’s merely an unfortunate coincidence that it’s actually the wee hours of the morning, and Kate’s official hours don’t begin until nine.
When the good doctor arrives, she has a pile of folders in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Rodney’s respect for her rises a notch when she drops the papers in her surprise, but not the beverage.
It’s good to know that the shrink has her priorities straight, that’s how he looks at it.
He still flails a bit as he doesn’t *quite* fall off the couch, because it’s been one of *those* nights again, and now Rodney is stiff and awkward, disjointed and discombobulated, and the small part of his mind that’s actually *awake* thinks that maybe it’s not the best idea to be starting therapy when he can barely string together enough polysyllabic words to form a sentence.
The part of him that seems to be running things lately, though, gets up and helps gather the scattered folders that are bleeding their pale contents across the dark floor like a negative image of an exsanguination.
**********************
My subconscious is a scary place.
Something new . . . a series of short, connected snippets. See what you think.
Rodney has never willingly been to see Kate Heightmeyer, so he considers it something of a personal triumph that he’s now physically in her office.
It’s merely an unfortunate coincidence that it’s actually the wee hours of the morning, and Kate’s official hours don’t begin until nine.
When the good doctor arrives, she has a pile of folders in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Rodney’s respect for her rises a notch when she drops the papers in her surprise, but not the beverage.
It’s good to know that the shrink has her priorities straight, that’s how he looks at it.
He still flails a bit as he doesn’t *quite* fall off the couch, because it’s been one of *those* nights again, and now Rodney is stiff and awkward, disjointed and discombobulated, and the small part of his mind that’s actually *awake* thinks that maybe it’s not the best idea to be starting therapy when he can barely string together enough polysyllabic words to form a sentence.
The part of him that seems to be running things lately, though, gets up and helps gather the scattered folders that are bleeding their pale contents across the dark floor like a negative image of an exsanguination.
**********************