OOM: All Change Here
Jan. 31st, 2014 08:06 pm A couple of hours after this conversation with a very confused Hannibal Lecter, Valjean started to feel unwell. He had sighed, and done what he always did when he became under the weather; that is, shut himself away to wait it out on his own. A rat occasionally brought a drink, and although it was miserable, it felt somehow apt.
He woke up in the night with a head full of strange dreams. Twice. The second time, he was reaching for a cigar on his bedside table before remembering that he did not take tobacco.
By morning, he felt a little better. Annoyed that he could not find his leather jacket, and mystified by the clothes in his wardrobe, but better. He shut the door, and swore. He went to shower, and spent a good five minutes trying to scrub off the scars on his wrists and arms. What the fuck, seriously. Something has obviously gone wrong somewhere, so he'd better get on finding someone who can check him out. Great.
When he opened the wardrobe again, things improved. Still no jacket, but there were jeans, boots and a white beater. He got dressed - carefully, so as not to squash the peaks of his hair (which has somehow started to grey overnight, much to his consternation) - and figured there must be coffee around here somewhere.
He has no idea what's happened to his sideburns. He keeps rubbing his face. He feels naked. It's weird, and he doesn't like it.
He woke up in the night with a head full of strange dreams. Twice. The second time, he was reaching for a cigar on his bedside table before remembering that he did not take tobacco.
By morning, he felt a little better. Annoyed that he could not find his leather jacket, and mystified by the clothes in his wardrobe, but better. He shut the door, and swore. He went to shower, and spent a good five minutes trying to scrub off the scars on his wrists and arms. What the fuck, seriously. Something has obviously gone wrong somewhere, so he'd better get on finding someone who can check him out. Great.
When he opened the wardrobe again, things improved. Still no jacket, but there were jeans, boots and a white beater. He got dressed - carefully, so as not to squash the peaks of his hair (which has somehow started to grey overnight, much to his consternation) - and figured there must be coffee around here somewhere.
He has no idea what's happened to his sideburns. He keeps rubbing his face. He feels naked. It's weird, and he doesn't like it.
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