(no subject)
Hikaru, thoughtfully, adjusted the collar of the bowling outfit.
He did this quite frequently, as it happens, and the habit generated joy and despair in approximately equal amounts among the more speculative members of his team, i.e., Jim. Even Jim was resigned, by now, to the fact that no matter how hard he stared at Hikaru's slim fingers as they descended into the deep ring of shade at the base of his neck, the collar would never pull open far enough to show more than the barest hint of the paler skin of the shoulder, and Hikaru would never actually go so far as to undo the top button of his vest.
There were good reasons for this, although Jim would probably have disagreed, and not only disagreed but also made a set of charts to illustrate the point, because apparently that job at the mayor's office left him with more time on his hands than should actually have been possible, assuming a 24-hour day. For one thing, Hikaru liked the bowling outfit. He was used to other kinds of costume: ones which tore easily no matter what they were made out of due to certain peculiarities of narrative convention in the area, and which had a complicated relationship with wind. The bowling outfit, though, was predictable, and had rules that applied no matter what the weather was like outside of the building. He could fasten it the same way every time, without having to worry about, say, making sure the logo was the right way up, or detangling his cape from his belt.
For another, not everything below Hikaru's collarline was the right color. Or the right shape. Or the right species.
This, besides being an interesting fact and one that Jim could never, ever know about, was indirectly the cause of the thoughtful adjustment in question.
"Urgent, huh?" he said aloud.
"Incredibly," said the cat, staring up at him with unconvincingly feline-- or, for that matter, Terrestrial-- violet eyes. In the dark corner behind the shoe rack, they glittered like salt.
Hikaru rubbed his temple.
"Okay," he said. "I'm sorry. It's just, it's sort of my night off, and..."
"The blood of innocents will be on your head if you do not answer this call," said the cat.
In Hikaru's experience, the blood of innocents only ever ended up on his head when he did answer calls. But.
"All right," he said, casting a wary glance over his shoulder at Jim, who would be noticing his prolonged absence soon. It was a shame. They'd been having a really very interesting conversation about Pike's ties, and Hikaru had been looking forward to learning more about inner-office politics as it manifested in sartorial signals.
Maybe next week, he thought regretfully, hurrying after the cat, around the corner and down the hall. Yeah.
He did this quite frequently, as it happens, and the habit generated joy and despair in approximately equal amounts among the more speculative members of his team, i.e., Jim. Even Jim was resigned, by now, to the fact that no matter how hard he stared at Hikaru's slim fingers as they descended into the deep ring of shade at the base of his neck, the collar would never pull open far enough to show more than the barest hint of the paler skin of the shoulder, and Hikaru would never actually go so far as to undo the top button of his vest.
There were good reasons for this, although Jim would probably have disagreed, and not only disagreed but also made a set of charts to illustrate the point, because apparently that job at the mayor's office left him with more time on his hands than should actually have been possible, assuming a 24-hour day. For one thing, Hikaru liked the bowling outfit. He was used to other kinds of costume: ones which tore easily no matter what they were made out of due to certain peculiarities of narrative convention in the area, and which had a complicated relationship with wind. The bowling outfit, though, was predictable, and had rules that applied no matter what the weather was like outside of the building. He could fasten it the same way every time, without having to worry about, say, making sure the logo was the right way up, or detangling his cape from his belt.
For another, not everything below Hikaru's collarline was the right color. Or the right shape. Or the right species.
This, besides being an interesting fact and one that Jim could never, ever know about, was indirectly the cause of the thoughtful adjustment in question.
"Urgent, huh?" he said aloud.
"Incredibly," said the cat, staring up at him with unconvincingly feline-- or, for that matter, Terrestrial-- violet eyes. In the dark corner behind the shoe rack, they glittered like salt.
Hikaru rubbed his temple.
"Okay," he said. "I'm sorry. It's just, it's sort of my night off, and..."
"The blood of innocents will be on your head if you do not answer this call," said the cat.
In Hikaru's experience, the blood of innocents only ever ended up on his head when he did answer calls. But.
"All right," he said, casting a wary glance over his shoulder at Jim, who would be noticing his prolonged absence soon. It was a shame. They'd been having a really very interesting conversation about Pike's ties, and Hikaru had been looking forward to learning more about inner-office politics as it manifested in sartorial signals.
Maybe next week, he thought regretfully, hurrying after the cat, around the corner and down the hall. Yeah.