Warren brushes his teeth and examines his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Does he look more alive?

Does he look more employed?

Mostly he just looks like he's finally starting to put on a pound or two.

Who knows what the weather will be like.

Actual weather.

Warren wears a sweater.

It's probably a dream. Because: weren't they doing that? Scanning for wedding nightmares.

Not found.

But it is their room. Mostly. I mean, the bed's on the wrong side of the room. And the carpet is blue here. It should be tan.

But everything else is...you know.

Water's running in the bathroom.

Warren is waiting excitedly in his room. Alone. Isabel is working. Warren is trying to keep himself busy and failing.

He's made the bed.

Warren strolls out of the physical, but not the metaphorical closet wiping his hands on his jeans (one of his old pairs, already previously well wiped). He belly flops onto the bed, because he requires attention.

Warren doesn't look like an angel when he sleeps, especially when he's comfortable enough to be sleeping shirtless. He looks a little like a hibernating bear. Right now he looks a little like a hibernating bear reading over some blue prints. Growl.

Tell.

Warren wears the shirt he died in; a long sleeved shirt underneath; a pair of khaki's Isabel bought him. It doesn't quite match, but he thinks it does, and isn't that what counts ( Read more... )

Warren wakes, tangled in bedsheets and female. He leans carefully to the side, and fishes around under the bed.

Check.

He rolls over on his side and pokes Isabel in the chest with a finger.

Warren stands in the doorway to the bathroom, looking vaguely amused at the hot tub which has taken over most of the room's floor space.

"Do you think it's permanent?"