Of panic attacks and sorely needed naps, part 2.
Varrett woke to a tap of pressure against his stomach. Or, rather, a series of them. He nudged the headband up onto his forehead, cracked his eyes open, and watched Collin lob another balled up piece of paper across the room. It landed on Varrett’s midsection, bounced, and rolled to the floor. A pile of about a dozen more were scattered on the carpet.
“You were out,” Collin said as he scooted from one end of the room to the other, propelling himself forward with one foot while kneeling on his rolling chair. He upended a tray of surgical tools into a bucket, spun around, and kept scooting.
“Yep. I had a day, okay? This man earned a nap.”
“Hey, I don’t mind you chilling on my couch, but I got this feeling that’s not why you’re here? And you know I get a lot of feelings, so what can Col do for you?”
“I need de-dusting,” Varrett said, bribing his ass vertical (You’ll get a proper bed in your new future, promise).
“Hooo—” Collin spun his chair one more time before finally holding still and fixing Varrett with a genuinely curious look. The way he leaned on the chair with one knee and bent slightly sideways made him look even wirier than he actually was. “You got Pixie Dust up your ware? How? Watchu do?”
“Ehh, long story. Something-something don’t jack into a NetCaster.”
Collin cleared his throat. “That’s a very dumb thing to do. But, whatever. Come. Sit.”
Thank you for reading. You still rock :3
Writing. Reading. Dreaming. 