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[moraldyslexic]

With an open book in his lap and his sprained ankle propped up on the couch, Lennox was half-reading and half-waiting for Miguel to come by, hoping that he'd come by soon enough to let both the dogs out. They were both starting to do what Lennox had come to think of as the doggy pee dance and his ankle hurt enough that he didn't really want to get

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[number97a413]

Now that he's agreed to consider moving in, Miguel has even fewer qualms about making trips to his hut, but not so few that the remark doesn't chafe. "When I push you down a fuckin' ravine, you can count on me to wait on your stupid ass," he says, rolling his eyes and holding his hands out for the excited dogs.

Coming up the steps, he tilts his head and regards Jim steadily, before snorting and contradicting himself. "Do you need anything from inside?"

[moraldyslexic]

"Nah, I'm okay," Lennox answered and he nodded to the chair beside him, inviting Miguel to sit down and hang out, even if it was just a little while before Lennox needed help to get back inside. "The dogs needed to piss and I needed some air."

And he really didn't want to get up again so soon after sitting down. Being injured was a great excuse for being lazy.

"As long as I'm injured, smoking up is considered medicinal, right?" he asked, offering Miguel a grin as he looked for the joint he knew was in one of his shirt pockets.

[number97a413]

"You're injured, I'm crazy: we'd at least get off in fuckin' So-Cal," he agrees, sprawling loosely in the chair.

He watches Jim pat his shirt down for a minute, eliminating pockets until it's obvious which one's left, then reaches across the space to pull the joint from it, fitting it between his lips and flopping back into his chair with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Light," he asks, holding out his hand.

[moraldyslexic]

"I'm Canadian," Lennox reminded Miguel with a laugh, fishing the matches out of one of his pockets and handing them over. His lighter had long since died and sat on one of the shelves inside the hut, one of his few decorations, if he could even call it that.

"Would I still get off in California if I'm not even an American citizen?" he asked. "Or would they like... fucking extradite me to my own country to stand trial for treason?"

Treason had nothing to do with it, but he liked how it sounded.