just who I wanted to see
For all that it was said that the truth was a cleansing experience, Jamie Madrox hadn't showered in two days.
He was hungry, he was emotionally exhausted, and God did he smell. While being holed up in his hut had seemed like a good idea, it didn't really work all that well in practice. His hair - already too long by a couple of inches - hung in lank, greasy strands across his forehead and because he'd never gotten around to doing laundry the day before, the cleanest shirt he had was one he'd already worn twice. He was long past five o'clock shadow.
In short, he felt a little more than disgusting.
He'd lumbered towards the Compound at some ungodly hour in the morning in hopes of avoiding anyone and so far his plan had worked. He'd thrown his laundry in the washer and, after a good fifteen minutes of begging, had managed to get something decent from the clothes box. 'Decent', in this case, meant a t-shirt with the DC comics’ logo on it and a pair of ratty jeans. It was hardly high fashion but it was good enough for what he'd needed it for, namely so that he wouldn't have to be walking around the Compound in only a towel.
It seemed he had some sense of self-preservation left after all.
He'd taken longer in the shower than was usual for him, emerging some thirty minutes later, clean-shaven and his still-wet hair falling into his eyes. He'd briefly considered cutting it right then and there but ultimately had decided against it; the more time he spent in the Compound, the more he ran the risk of running into someone he might not want to see.
Considerably more awake than he had been earlier, Jamie took full advantage of whatever stealth training he'd picked up over the years to dart into the laundry room. Which would have worked just fine if there hadn’t already been someone in there.
"Crap." Beat. "I mean!" Beat. "No, I mean crap." Beat. "Sorry."
All times accepted.
He was hungry, he was emotionally exhausted, and God did he smell. While being holed up in his hut had seemed like a good idea, it didn't really work all that well in practice. His hair - already too long by a couple of inches - hung in lank, greasy strands across his forehead and because he'd never gotten around to doing laundry the day before, the cleanest shirt he had was one he'd already worn twice. He was long past five o'clock shadow.
In short, he felt a little more than disgusting.
He'd lumbered towards the Compound at some ungodly hour in the morning in hopes of avoiding anyone and so far his plan had worked. He'd thrown his laundry in the washer and, after a good fifteen minutes of begging, had managed to get something decent from the clothes box. 'Decent', in this case, meant a t-shirt with the DC comics’ logo on it and a pair of ratty jeans. It was hardly high fashion but it was good enough for what he'd needed it for, namely so that he wouldn't have to be walking around the Compound in only a towel.
It seemed he had some sense of self-preservation left after all.
He'd taken longer in the shower than was usual for him, emerging some thirty minutes later, clean-shaven and his still-wet hair falling into his eyes. He'd briefly considered cutting it right then and there but ultimately had decided against it; the more time he spent in the Compound, the more he ran the risk of running into someone he might not want to see.
Considerably more awake than he had been earlier, Jamie took full advantage of whatever stealth training he'd picked up over the years to dart into the laundry room. Which would have worked just fine if there hadn’t already been someone in there.
"Crap." Beat. "I mean!" Beat. "No, I mean crap." Beat. "Sorry."
All times accepted.