Too damn quiet. The whole apartment was too damn quiet- even Casey was keep'n to his room for the most part, keep'n to himself and Bones couldn't rightly blame him. Loss was rough. He'd tried to make himself available to the kid but- Wash was miss'n and all he could think of was the dark and the whispers and Greg-
Greg was dead. Even in a world fulla magic a gutwound would kill a man quick if it went in that vicious. Aside from a mild anxiety attack when the jar of green bits that'd been left over from Rose's disposal of Peridot was suddenly empty, Leonard felt himself living in a familiar haze interrupted only by the comings and goings of Casey and the clink of ice in the glass. He knew that path well enough to monitor it, though. Curb the bad habit. Limit the crutch to when he was alone, when Casey was quiet and settled in his room and didn't seem to need anything. No one was hurt- no one needed him. A drink or two or five wouldn't kill anyone.
When he wasn't work'n and he wasn't drink'n in the evening- he alternated between knitt'n and bak'n. Pies just weren't the same without Greg perched to one side, picking at the strings and wipp'n up some kind of song to go along with the pastry. Without Wash sitt'n on the sofa and ask'n about every little thing that went into the pie and how long it'd take to be done. He'd tried to bake earlier in the day, couldn't manage.
When the door swung open he was on the sofa, mug of coffee at his elbow, heather grey and yellow yarn clicking away in his fingers as he worked through twists of cabled knots. Bags under his eyes and stubble on his jaw, he looked probably about as tired as he felt. At first he didn't think anything of it, Casey was probably coming back in but- Casey was in his room.
no subject
Greg was dead. Even in a world fulla magic a gutwound would kill a man quick if it went in that vicious. Aside from a mild anxiety attack when the jar of green bits that'd been left over from Rose's disposal of Peridot was suddenly empty, Leonard felt himself living in a familiar haze interrupted only by the comings and goings of Casey and the clink of ice in the glass. He knew that path well enough to monitor it, though. Curb the bad habit. Limit the crutch to when he was alone, when Casey was quiet and settled in his room and didn't seem to need anything. No one was hurt- no one needed him. A drink or two or five wouldn't kill anyone.
When he wasn't work'n and he wasn't drink'n in the evening- he alternated between knitt'n and bak'n. Pies just weren't the same without Greg perched to one side, picking at the strings and wipp'n up some kind of song to go along with the pastry. Without Wash sitt'n on the sofa and ask'n about every little thing that went into the pie and how long it'd take to be done. He'd tried to bake earlier in the day, couldn't manage.
When the door swung open he was on the sofa, mug of coffee at his elbow, heather grey and yellow yarn clicking away in his fingers as he worked through twists of cabled knots. Bags under his eyes and stubble on his jaw, he looked probably about as tired as he felt. At first he didn't think anything of it, Casey was probably coming back in but- Casey was in his room.
And Wash was helping Greg onto the sofa.
What the hell.
"...Greg?"