Off-center
Who: Gerald, OT Tamara
Where: Their apartment
When: Friday night
Gerald was not in a particularly good mood. He'd just received what was supposed to be his weekly treatment -- Sheridan had been skimping on 'less necessary expenses' lately in order to focus on their latest secret project that was none of his business, and seemed to enjoy tormenting him besides, and as a result he'd stalled Gerald's treatment for several days. Whatever was in that stuff, it did seem to do wonders at making Gerald's headaches and nausea recede - but Sheridan seemed to enjoy withholding it to punish Gerald for sub-excellent performance, a fact that was at best irritating and at worst torturous. Still better than being Sheridan's lunch, for certain, but...
He floated through the streets of Sunnydale, a formless and near-invisible mist, searching for home. He had grown accustomed to this -- the dissipation of self, the sense of extended being -- but this habit of withholding treatments Sheridan was putting on was wreaking havoc on his self-control. Even with the serum in his system, he still felt vaguely uncoordinated, like something just wasn't sitting properly...
Ah, there was home. He descended and coalesced into existence on the street, then made his way to the door. The damned headache was still there, but at least it was beginning to fade.
Where: Their apartment
When: Friday night
Gerald was not in a particularly good mood. He'd just received what was supposed to be his weekly treatment -- Sheridan had been skimping on 'less necessary expenses' lately in order to focus on their latest secret project that was none of his business, and seemed to enjoy tormenting him besides, and as a result he'd stalled Gerald's treatment for several days. Whatever was in that stuff, it did seem to do wonders at making Gerald's headaches and nausea recede - but Sheridan seemed to enjoy withholding it to punish Gerald for sub-excellent performance, a fact that was at best irritating and at worst torturous. Still better than being Sheridan's lunch, for certain, but...
He floated through the streets of Sunnydale, a formless and near-invisible mist, searching for home. He had grown accustomed to this -- the dissipation of self, the sense of extended being -- but this habit of withholding treatments Sheridan was putting on was wreaking havoc on his self-control. Even with the serum in his system, he still felt vaguely uncoordinated, like something just wasn't sitting properly...
Ah, there was home. He descended and coalesced into existence on the street, then made his way to the door. The damned headache was still there, but at least it was beginning to fade.