(Untitled)

[time_for_this]

The couch in this living room is beat-up, worn down at the edges; it's like dorm room furniture, Rebecca thinks occasionally, from the wry distance of thirty-seven and the memory of her own tidy apartment. But this is the Shelter, and what matters is that the couch is there and it's comfortable, and it holds together

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[bass_line_blues]

Preston wanders in, and looks down at the book for a moment - he never read it, but one of his sisters went through a month during which she would only answer to Laura - before he coughs politely to announce his presence.

(Not everyone has werewolf or vampire senses.)

"Hey."

[time_for_this]

"Hey, boy," Rebecca says without looking up, and turns a page. Finishes the sentence.

Then she looks up. And smiles a little. "How've you been?"

[bass_line_blues]

"Not real furry," says Preston, "which is always a plus."

He settles himself down across from her in a much-battered armchair. It's leaking stuffing, and he sneezes, and then wrinkles his nose.

"Allergies. Man. How 'bout you?"

[time_for_this]

Easily, "Oh, gettin' by."

Rebecca dogears the page -- it's a bad habit of hers, and this book is too battered for anyone to notice anyway -- and closes the book.

She directs a slight grimace at the armchair. "Somebody's gotta have some duct tape or something. Cloth that'll work for a patch, maybe. That thing's gonna be in bits on the floor one of these days."