(no subject)
Remus has been debating a lot of points since waking up as some ridiculously fit, married, American man. The first debate was less a debate and more wishing he'd taken practical mathematics in his youth, trying to figure out how much he now has to drink to get blind-drunk in a body with six inches and probably a good five to eight stone over his own. The second debate was the ethics of getting blind-drunk in a body that isn't, actually, his.
He probably should have asked Logan whether or not his husband is some kind of recovering alcoholic before fleeing the entire situation, but seeing the man upset had caused him the kind of ugly, acute distress generally reserved for Sirius-having-a-breakdown, and he'd already been distressed enough over things like not knowing where he was, who he was, why it was happening, or what to do with considerably more morning wood than he was ever used to waking up with. The solution, of course, had been to protest with a twisted little eugh, find a pair of trousers that fit this body far too well, and storm off in search of home.
Except he couldn't really storm into his hut in the body of a complete stranger, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. The path took him past the compound anyway, and one cold shower and trip to the clothes box later, he's finding that all of his usual comforts are no help at all. His trousers now cling, the over-sized cardigans he likes to lounge around the rec room in actually fit, and he's rather upset to decide against alcohol because, with nothing left to ponder, he's back to feeling a hollow disappointment at not pressing Logan into the mattress and kissing the panic out of them both, compounded by the frustration of not even getting a wank in before breakfast.
Downing four aspirin with the last of his tea to fend off a truly stupid headache, Remus is torn between wanting a swift end and hoping this Jack person isn't allergic to the stuff. He puts his head down on the long kitchen table, arms lain haphazardly around his breakfast dishes, whimpers at a particularly sharp twinge behind his eyes, and starts a third debate: the merits of going back to his hut versus hiding in, say, the caves until this is over.
[Remus Lupin trapped in the body of an omnisexual John Barrowman, being miserable in the kitchen, hooray! I've got a few work shifts this weekend to contend with, so expect some slowtime, and I'll have to apply my usual 6 thread limit just in case. Late tags accepted through the weekend.]
He probably should have asked Logan whether or not his husband is some kind of recovering alcoholic before fleeing the entire situation, but seeing the man upset had caused him the kind of ugly, acute distress generally reserved for Sirius-having-a-breakdown, and he'd already been distressed enough over things like not knowing where he was, who he was, why it was happening, or what to do with considerably more morning wood than he was ever used to waking up with. The solution, of course, had been to protest with a twisted little eugh, find a pair of trousers that fit this body far too well, and storm off in search of home.
Except he couldn't really storm into his hut in the body of a complete stranger, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. The path took him past the compound anyway, and one cold shower and trip to the clothes box later, he's finding that all of his usual comforts are no help at all. His trousers now cling, the over-sized cardigans he likes to lounge around the rec room in actually fit, and he's rather upset to decide against alcohol because, with nothing left to ponder, he's back to feeling a hollow disappointment at not pressing Logan into the mattress and kissing the panic out of them both, compounded by the frustration of not even getting a wank in before breakfast.
Downing four aspirin with the last of his tea to fend off a truly stupid headache, Remus is torn between wanting a swift end and hoping this Jack person isn't allergic to the stuff. He puts his head down on the long kitchen table, arms lain haphazardly around his breakfast dishes, whimpers at a particularly sharp twinge behind his eyes, and starts a third debate: the merits of going back to his hut versus hiding in, say, the caves until this is over.
[Remus Lupin trapped in the body of an omnisexual John Barrowman, being miserable in the kitchen, hooray! I've got a few work shifts this weekend to contend with, so expect some slowtime, and I'll have to apply my usual 6 thread limit just in case. Late tags accepted through the weekend.]