[Feelings are very hard, and there is no such thing as playing Chicken.
In the lounge, on the most comfortable of the space sofas, the one that has been plumped up with magical modifications, Padfoot is flopped with his chin laid on a stack of pillows. If he would sit properly, head raised, tail curled at his side, he might look regal, like a bookend. He would make a horrible bookend, sat as he is right now, limp and dejected, all of the air let out of him.
Dejected, but still: his nose works at the air, picking out the smell of Remus as he comes closer. His tail doesn't wag, and he doesn't lift his head, but his ears prick a little, and he turns his eyes toward the door, expectant.
On the floor beside the sofa is the bottle of awful space whisky. Dogs can't open it, but it's been opened, and someone (zero guesses as to who) has already imbibed some.]
action now as reward for linking me to tumblr which i can't see at work but will probably laugh/cry
In the lounge, on the most comfortable of the space sofas, the one that has been plumped up with magical modifications, Padfoot is flopped with his chin laid on a stack of pillows. If he would sit properly, head raised, tail curled at his side, he might look regal, like a bookend. He would make a horrible bookend, sat as he is right now, limp and dejected, all of the air let out of him.
Dejected, but still: his nose works at the air, picking out the smell of Remus as he comes closer. His tail doesn't wag, and he doesn't lift his head, but his ears prick a little, and he turns his eyes toward the door, expectant.
On the floor beside the sofa is the bottle of awful space whisky. Dogs can't open it, but it's been opened, and someone (zero guesses as to who) has already imbibed some.]