Post by Lucille Nibourette on Feb 21, 2015 20:42:18 GMT -8
It was three in the morning and Lucille Nibourette was beyond tired. She wanted to go to sleep, but nevertheless she was making a valiant effort at keeping awake. The reason behind this was the rather hectic week that had just transpired, with some sort of booking each day, which meant that she was hideously behind on nearly all of her TV shows, an abject horror, really. She needed to find out what was happening on the latest episode of The Walking Dead and How to Get Away With Murder, not to mention Empire, and she certainly was not going to hold back now that she finally had a break! Even if she had class in the morning… Her attendance had been good enough this semester, so it shouldn't be an awful drawback for her to skip tomorrow, would it? Nah, of course not! Her professors should surely understand that being a student while holding down a blossoming singing career was no easy task!
That was the entire reasoning behind why she was where she was, in the living room with the dim glow of her laptop illuminating her features and a set of headphones around her ears, listening enraptured as Viola Davis swore to protect her students (even if they were murderers). The entire storyline was all too relatable in some ways, which she was sure it wasn't meant to be, but—well—tough luck changing reality. The noise-canceling headphones was the reason she didn't hear the knocking at her door until she felt compelled to take them off, too overwhelmed with emotion at the end of the episode that she needed to do… something. Grab a pillow and roll around, or go to the kitchen to find some comfort food to snack on, but as it happened, she was met with a knocking when she slipped the headphones off and absently shook her hair out.
Her first reaction was one of annoyance—of course it was her drunk neighbors again, returning home after a night at the bar and finding the wrong door—but then her impromptu visitor spoke, and that sense of annoyance promptly vanished. Though she would have been exasperated if it hadn't been three in the morning; even if she was accustomed to Feliciano dropping in from time to time, he would never be bothering her this late unless it was something important, so the exasperation she might have felt over oh, of course you didn't pay your bills again instead gave way to a nagging bit of worry.
Setting her laptop and headphones down on the couch, she scrambled up and hurried to let him in, only pausing to check through the peephole that it really was Feli standing there. A quick turn of the lock, and she pulled the door open to be met with the sight of a fairly miserable-looking Italian. Under the glow of the streetlights, she could just make out the thin sheen of sweat covering his brow, his slumped posture and the exhaustion in his expression. He must have been coming in from a job, and after a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching him—well, them—she ushered him inside, then shut and locked the door again. Then, she flipped on the lights inside her own flat to get a good look at him. Granted, he didn't look much better under the lights, and she said as much.
"Oh, honey, you look awful," she said, not bothering to mask the worry in her tone. Something must have not gone well, and she tentatively reached out for the edges of Feli's wool jacket (not warm enough for spring nights in London, she thought), tugging it open to reveal the bloody mess beneath. Feli's shirt was drenched. It clung to his skin where he'd sweated through the fabric, then in other places where the white was stained a browning red. Blood. There was no other liquid that held quite the same quality. It would be a lie to say that she didn't panic some at the sight, but she couldn't see any obvious indication of a wound, which released the immediate tension in her shoulders. Yet, she wasn't fully assured, and her eyes flickered up to meet his. "Yours?" she asked anxiously.
That was the entire reasoning behind why she was where she was, in the living room with the dim glow of her laptop illuminating her features and a set of headphones around her ears, listening enraptured as Viola Davis swore to protect her students (even if they were murderers). The entire storyline was all too relatable in some ways, which she was sure it wasn't meant to be, but—well—tough luck changing reality. The noise-canceling headphones was the reason she didn't hear the knocking at her door until she felt compelled to take them off, too overwhelmed with emotion at the end of the episode that she needed to do… something. Grab a pillow and roll around, or go to the kitchen to find some comfort food to snack on, but as it happened, she was met with a knocking when she slipped the headphones off and absently shook her hair out.
Her first reaction was one of annoyance—of course it was her drunk neighbors again, returning home after a night at the bar and finding the wrong door—but then her impromptu visitor spoke, and that sense of annoyance promptly vanished. Though she would have been exasperated if it hadn't been three in the morning; even if she was accustomed to Feliciano dropping in from time to time, he would never be bothering her this late unless it was something important, so the exasperation she might have felt over oh, of course you didn't pay your bills again instead gave way to a nagging bit of worry.
Setting her laptop and headphones down on the couch, she scrambled up and hurried to let him in, only pausing to check through the peephole that it really was Feli standing there. A quick turn of the lock, and she pulled the door open to be met with the sight of a fairly miserable-looking Italian. Under the glow of the streetlights, she could just make out the thin sheen of sweat covering his brow, his slumped posture and the exhaustion in his expression. He must have been coming in from a job, and after a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching him—well, them—she ushered him inside, then shut and locked the door again. Then, she flipped on the lights inside her own flat to get a good look at him. Granted, he didn't look much better under the lights, and she said as much.
"Oh, honey, you look awful," she said, not bothering to mask the worry in her tone. Something must have not gone well, and she tentatively reached out for the edges of Feli's wool jacket (not warm enough for spring nights in London, she thought), tugging it open to reveal the bloody mess beneath. Feli's shirt was drenched. It clung to his skin where he'd sweated through the fabric, then in other places where the white was stained a browning red. Blood. There was no other liquid that held quite the same quality. It would be a lie to say that she didn't panic some at the sight, but she couldn't see any obvious indication of a wound, which released the immediate tension in her shoulders. Yet, she wasn't fully assured, and her eyes flickered up to meet his. "Yours?" she asked anxiously.
Feliciano Vargas Sorry this took so long!
