[attr="class","samjermain"]Memo had just rolled in from another cold and blustery shift patrolling Fortree’s newest topic of conversation: the Rift. A number of things were working against him: he was not built for this weather; he was dressed in many layers; and the strange warping sound and sensations that rolled off the edges of the tear in space-time tended to do funny things to your brain, or, at least, your hearing.

He’d shed most of his slightly damp layers at the door and was standing in stocking feet, jeans, and a t-shirt, staring into the brightness of the refrigerator. The hum of the conditioning unit mixed with the warbling echoes of the rift in his ears, and he relished the coolness on his face, even though he’d just been out in chilled, mushy wet weather. If he was wavering a bit, like a dead tree in the wind, he didn’t notice.

“Huh?” His response to Alex is delayed, and he stumbles back, shutting the fridge like a kid caught sneaking dessert before dinner. He does, at least, register the level of concern on his boyfriend’s face, so he smiles and says, instinctively, “Nah, I’m fine. Just tired.”

He goes to put his hand on the counter, aiming for a relaxing pose, and misses, ending up hitting his elbow and leaning on that, instead.

[attr="class","samjerpoke"]