The Calm After the Storm

[butterflyfactor]

Layla had woken up with no Jamie beside her, and for a moment felt a queer sort of panic that made her question her sanity more than the island usually did. After a moment, during which time Richards had slunk up the bed to tuck his wet nose against her jaw and wag his tail a little, she recalled that she had been up, earlier, to let the dog in, and Jamie had been there beside her, asleep.

So she'd passed out from sheer exhaustion again. She could hardly blame herself. She gave Richards' some belly rubbing, then crawled out of bed and into jeans and a tank top, forgoing underwear or a hairbrush, and padded still-sleepily for the door.

Until she remember the Doomtech and small cylinder on her own bed. She went immediately to them and made a show- albeit for no one's sake but Richards'- of hiding them, wondering if Jamie had poked his head in when he'd gotten up and seen them anyway.

Surely, they'd talk about it later. One way or the other. It tied into her fabulous yacht party story, anyhow.

She spent a moment in her own room to twist her hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck and tie it there before she slipped into her chunky rain boots, jeans scrunched up along the tops, and started out into the still storm-tossed morning. She hoped she didn't have to go far.

Comments

[howmanylives]

This morning I woke from a fitful sleep with some better understanding of what it must be like to be Victor Von Doom -- bear with me, I'll explain in a second. You see, this particular morning, I woke up next to the very beautiful, very naked woman I professed my love to last night, which under just about any other circumstance would be great. I was up in every sense of the word, even somewhat rested, and I was about to lean over to kiss Layla awake, take advantage of our privacy, when, lo and behold, there was movement at the end of the bed.

She'd let the damn dog in. The dog, who I purposefully left outside of the room last night. The dog, who I might remind you, is named after a certain Mr. Fantastic.

Yelling Richards' name at the sky, it turns out, is remarkably therapeutic. It's no wonder Doom does it so often.

Jamie'd already been to the Rec Centre and back by the time he crossed paths with Layla, showered, if no less internally frustrated from the morning's cancelled plans. Though in reality he felt no better than he had the night before, save for having regained some of the color in his cheeks, there was nevertheless a renewed vigor to his step. His shoulders were pushed back, his head held higher -- with two fingers pressed above his temple in a sort of mock salute, he tipped his chin forward, and said, "Top o' the morning to you, Layla. You're looking.... acclimatized."