[It's the early hours of the morning, the sky only just starting to lighten outside when there's a tap tap taping on Quentin's mind. It's soft, not trying to wake him, just draw his awareness if he's awake already.
[ Even though his night ended peacefully, the sheer amount Quentin had to drink, the heat, and the lingering buzz of aphrodisiac kept him from falling too deep in to sleep. Probably better that way, given the state most people downstairs were sleeping in. He'd hate to trip into whatever horny shit these degenerates (fond) dream about.
[ On the downside, it means that when the tapping wakes him easily, Murphy is greeted with the psychic equivalent of whuzzat: static, a heady cloud like the back end of a shot of hard rum. Good morning. ]
[Not quite the level of awake he'd been after. He considers leaving Quentin to sleep more, but he's restless, doesn't have the patience.]
(Hey.) [Not the projection of voice he's learnt to fake out in the network between everyone. This is his mind as it is to himself, to the Nest.] (Want some pie?)
[Floated like a lure, like the smell of good coffee to the freshly hungover. Get up, Quentin.]
[ Oh. Oh, shit, okay. It still feels a little dreamy, but he sits up and stretches (the ache doesn't leave him) straightaway. What the fuck kind of wake-up call is this? It's not bad, just--surreal. He splashes his face in the basin, finds his voice while he wipes himself of sweat and mess and mess. ]
[It isn't long, but somehow it's enough that Murphy's attention seems to have drifted. There's the sense of him being drawn back by the questions, but the answer itself (omitting one part) still comes quickly.]
(Tavern kitchen. Come round the back. Door's open.)
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sept 3
Or at least, that's the intention, anyway.]
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[ On the downside, it means that when the tapping wakes him easily, Murphy is greeted with the psychic equivalent of whuzzat: static, a heady cloud like the back end of a shot of hard rum. Good morning. ]
no subject
( Hey. ) [Not the projection of voice he's learnt to fake out in the network between everyone. This is his mind as it is to himself, to the Nest.] ( Want some pie? )
[Floated like a lure, like the smell of good coffee to the freshly hungover. Get up, Quentin.]
no subject
yes
[ Oh. Oh, shit, okay. It still feels a little dreamy, but he sits up and stretches (the ache doesn't leave him) straightaway. What the fuck kind of wake-up call is this? It's not bad, just--surreal. He splashes his face in the basin, finds his voice while he wipes himself of sweat and mess and mess. ]
Hey.
How long have you been up? Where are you?
no subject
( Tavern kitchen. Come round the back. Door's open. )