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[m_pinocchio]

He's not sure why he should feel so tired. He's taken it easy today, spent time with the girls in the morning, checked his snares, sat with Neil for a while on the ballfield, sat with Florence for a while on the beach. He shouldn't be tired, but he is, and maybe it comes back to Florence's face, the pain in it, the loss, though he knows she was

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[out_of_realm]

For a long time, Tom leaned in the doorway to Mike's hut, arms cross tightly over his chest, just watching him sleep. Since that afternoon he'd gone through cycles, over and over. Rage, hurt, helplessness, one into the other and back again, endlessly. There was nothing he could do for Neil now but love him. No matter how much he wished otherwise, there was no going back across years. Still. Still, there were bitter dregs of anger that even an afternoon at the shooting range hadn't shaken out of him. Leaning there, watching, smelling like GSR and smoke, something already tightly coiled in his chest pulled taunt.

"Get up," he said, voice rough from disuse. He slid into the room, slapping Mike's legs through the sheets. "I said, get up, Pinocchio."

[m_pinocchio]

He starts, awake in a half second; he hadn't even really been fully asleep, but he hadn't sensed Tom there. Maybe he's getting rusty. He rolls half over onto his back, stares up at Tom in the dimness, confusion all over his face. Why would he sound like that?

What's happened now?

"What the hell?" He sits up, palming roughly at his eyes. "The fuck is wrong with you?"

[out_of_realm]

"With me?" Tom said, voice raising in disbelief, hands braced on his hips. "What the hell is wrong with me? Hah. I talked to Neil today," Tom went on, voice tight, words sharply clipped.

"Down at the baseball field."

[m_pinocchio]

He sits up a little straighter, trying to parse that, trying to find some sense in it. "I know he was there," he says, raking a hand through his hair and making it stand up even more. "We talked for a while. Why, what did you talk to him about?"