fossilised | werewolves

werewolves

Pumpkin Spice.

It hits the shelves the moment the temperature dips below eighty, before the summer officially ends and the leaves give hint at changing color. It's become an American way of life. Lattes might claim it to be proof of their success and staying power but it's expanded into hand soap and e-cigarettes now. You can't find anything, really, that hasn't been pumpkin spiced these days. Pumpkin pie is too humble to try and reclaim it anyway, and has quietly retreated to Thanksgiving where it waits to mark the end of the most beloved season in New York among straight white girls.

Steve Rogers, while neither straight nor a girl, has whole heartedly embraced the trend and the moment Starbucks announced that it had come back out for a Limited Time Only, Steve had rummaged in his sock drawer for a gift card he was sure had money left on it and stood in line with the masses to claim his holy grail.

It's a comfort. It's a promise that there's going to be something else to look forward to in the coming months when holidays rear their ugly and beautiful heads to remind you that your family is dead and most of the kids you lived with in foster care and group homes have disappeared out of your life. It makes Steve's day and he's already day dreaming about boots and puffy vests the moment he takes his first, iced sip. Steve isn't really a day dreamer, but his head can get stuck in the clouds on the best days and distraction comes easily in a city where you're never and always alone at the same time.

There's charcoal under his nails and a moment of joy in his heart from the iced latte he grasps so fiercely the day he sees Bucky across the street. He'd know him anywhere, even with that long fringe of hair he hasn't seen since before he went off to basic training. The light to cross the street between them is red but Steve ignores the risks. There are two lanes each direction, and all four are packed with yellow cabs and black Uber cars. No one can go fast enough to do him any damage.

The latte gets dropped along the way and Steve doesn't care. It's been over a year and a half since he's seen Bucky. It's been six months since he last heard anything from him actually. He hadn't even gotten a birthday card this year.

"Buck!" Steve is just a skinny guy, five foot four, maybe 100 pounds if he's got art supplies and an easel on him. He has fallen arches and a heart arrhythmia, but they aren't keeping him from shimmying between cars and nearly getting run over. He's out of breath when he makes it across the street and though he's lost his drink, he needs to bend over and cup his hands on his knees to steady himself anyway so it all works out. "Hey." It's smooth and followed by a smile. Something bright and cheery and all too Steve Rogers hopped up on artificial sugar and flavorings.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"We're not gonna eat even fast food if you put it on the floor like that."

Bucky gestures to where Penny has already sneakily taken one burger from a stack and is trying to pretend that there's no cheese sticking out of her mouth. She might be a well trained service dog, but she's still a dog and burgers where she could get them was too much of a temptation.

He slides off the couch and onto the floor to take one of the burgers himself, shoving almost half of it in his mouth in one big bite. He doesn't eat as often as he should these days, he forgets or he loses time and ends up missing meals, but when he does then he makes up for it by stuffing his face.

"--you've got questions. Don't bother denying it, you're a crap liar. I'm telling you now that you ask them tonight and then let it be, because I ain't good at this stuff. Call it a Limited Time Offer or something."

Forcing Bucky to talk is not at all what he wants to do but Bucky is right. Steve isn’t sure where to step. There could be proverbial land mines all over their conversations for the next few months and Steve needs to know where to step.

It’s best, then, to start from the beginning, after he’s rescued their dinner from the floor to the coffee table. There still within Penny’s reach, but at least she might be better behaved now that they’re slightly more guarded. Steve takes his time unwrapping a burger. He flattens out the paper and carefully uses his thumbs to split the sandwich into two pieces. He’s buying time. He knows that. It’s just awkward to ask.

“You told me they were sending you in assignment. That was more than six months ago. You said there might be black out conditions... but what happened? You were hurt.” He can see it. Bucky still isn’t using his other hand. Not even to help with the food.

Bucky is just glad that Steve isn't protesting like an idiot that he doesn't have any questions, because then he'd have to kick his ass. He made the decision not to run and still be here, which means he was also understanding that in staying he was accepting Steve back into his life and, by extension, Steve's help. That means he needs to get some stuff out of the way.

But when he says he'll answer questions, he doesn't mean in detail. He can't. He's able to talk about what happened but only by shutting down and replying as if it happened to someone else, facts only. His expression shutters a bit, going blank, and he turns his gaze down to his burger as if it holds the facts of life.

"It was a trap, the assignment. We got ambushed. Six of us, me included, two died during the fight. Rest of us were taken to an insurgent camp. Four months."

He hesitates a second, a shadow over his face. He doesn't expand beyond the time they spent in the camp, but he's sure Steve will fill in the blanks. Torture, questioning, deprivation.

"There was trouble one night and one of the guards left his knife behind. I cut my hand off at the wrist to get out of the shackle, found the keys, let out the other two still alive and we ran. It was septic when we got back to base, they had to take the rest to keep it from killing me."

He pulls his loose sleeve up, showing Steve that the prosthetic goes all the way up to his shoulder. It's not the whole story. He can't talk about the stuff that was done to them in the camp, stuff that killed one of the other survivors and left the remaining three with issues beyond PTSD. Memory issues, brain damage of various levels, Morita was blind in one eye now.

"I've been Stateside since it was safe to move me, about a month ago. Maybe six weeks."

Though Steve can’t listen with the same disconnect that Bucky can use when telling his watered down, bullet point story, probably one he’s delivered many times, at least in his own head, to make the telling easier, he can do his best to keep his emotions in check. What he wants to do is impossible. Hunting people down and killing them? It’s not his style and he has no means to do it even if it was.

His take away, therefore, has to be more subdued. Somehow, though, it’s also more profound. “You’re a hero.”

Bucky mutilated himself to save himself and other people..

“You’ve always been a hero... but...”. This is so much more than offering someone a leg up or hauling them over a wall to safety. Steve can feel his fingers curl up into his palms. He can feel mucus filling the upper parts of his nasal cavity. He ought to have been with Bucky the moment he got home. He ought to have been able to do more than Day dream about pumpkin spice lattes and about the date next summer that Bucky was supposed to get his walking papers, tour of duty complete.

Steve knows why Bucky enlisted. The guy has always been taking care of him as best as he could, a brother to go with all of his sisters. This just seems like too much. The sacrifice had been too high.

“You know I’m proud of you. And Becca and the girls are going to be too. Are you—. Does it... is there pain?”

Bucky hates that word: hero.

Nobody seems to get that there hadn't been any bravery involved, no clarity or goodness of character that made him self sacrificing. There had only been terror and exhaustion and an opportunity. He cut his hand off because even failing and bleeding out was preferable to another day of torture, it was dumb luck that he managed to get the others out as well, and fluke that they all somehow made it back to base.

He hated the word even more after the army were finally done with him. They threw that word around like it was their license to print dollars. They wanted to publicise his story; a young man making a sacrifice for his brothers in arms, it would sell, it would get the public sympathy behind the military and make them support where Uncle Sam said. The only reason it hadn't turned into a media circus was because they couldn't rely on Bucky to be a good little soldier and say what he was supposed to, he would have been just as likely to cuss out any reporters that got near him. So instead they gave him a purple heart, a worthless medal to gather dust, a thank you, and a pension. Goodbye and get out.

No, he wasn't a damn hero.

He scowled over at Steve, but getting into an argument over semantics wouldn't help anyone; especially because whenever he protested that title with anyone else, they thought he was being modest and it all got more irritating from there. So he'll just answer the actual question asked, skating over the rest of it.

"Sometimes. I have meds that I'm meant to take, and physio classes to go to, check ups, all that stuff."

Not that he does most of it.

"It's pretty much healed up now, it just looks ugly as hell when I don't have a shirt on. But I've got the prosthetic, so most people never notice."

Most people doesn’t pertain to one Steve Rogers because he had noticed in minutes, at least as far as knowing something was terribly wrong. He couldn’t have guessed the rest if he tried. Using the knuckles of his right hand, Steve presses against the underside of his nose, maybe a bit roughly, so that he can do something to make his face look less distraught. It does the trick and he shifts his weight on the hard floor.

He misses carpets. No one wants carpets anymore to warm a place up or make them soft to sit on. Everything in modern society is hard wood. Steve doesn’t care for it. It makes his tailbone hurt.

“So when’s the last time you’ve been to a class or taken your medication?” You can bullshit a bullshitter. Steve might look sweet and innocent, but he’s been known to decide against a doctor’s recommendations several times a day and he can spot someone doing the same thing when they’re sitting across from him. “Actually, don’t answer that. I’ll get mad and insist on going with you to your appointments.”

And he might still do that. Sorry, Buck.

Penny is right there between them again, sitting down to Bucky’s right so that he can touch her if he needs to. Her ears are perked up and her eyes are focused on Steve as if wary. He might have brought burgers but he could still topple her person over again.

Steve, however, has moved on from one for of mothering to basic boys’ ridicule. “You couldn’t be ugly if you tried. No one can get a girl to get out of her clothes faster than you. And now you probably get to collect on Cool Scar points too. Plus your hair? You’re always trying to one up me. Maybe I’ll grow my hair out too. Get a beard?”

Bucky knew that sometimes he would hate Steve in the coming days, he could see it as clearly as he knew Steve was uncomfortable on the floor. He was a tenacious little jerk and was bound to get way too involved for his own good. He'd be willing to bet everything that he owned that ten minutes after Steve goes home tonight, he'll be downloading every information docket he can find that might help him out with all of this and then return armed to the teeth with knowledge.

But right now he loved him for not pushing the point on medication or appointments. They'd have that fight eventually, he knew that, but he could appreciate that Steve would let him get his equilibrium back and not ruin things this soon. Even talking about it so briefly and dispassionately unnerves him and he lightly rests his hand on Penny's head as an anchoring point.

"You can't grow a beard, you just get weird puberty scuff. Like fluff."

It's easier to tease than to stay serious right now.

"You can grow your hair if you want, but you'll still be a dork. You can't teach cool, Steve, you're born with it or you're not. I'm cool, you're the idiot with a Hogwarts House scarf."

Mock anger colors Steve’s face. This joking is probably more healing for him than for Bucky right now but Steve understands that sometimes, in crisis, you have to put yourself first to help everyone else. If he cracks now, he can’t be the support that Bucky needs. Will need. Is going to continue to need for maybe the rest of his life.

Steve is up for that. But first he needs to shore himself for what is going to come. It’s not always going to be pretty. Chances are, most days for awhile won’t be pretty.

“First of all, you got me the scarf. You always made me read the books with you each time one came out and we went to the midnight showing of the first five movies because you didn’t have a girlfriend to supposedly drag you to them. You’re the Gryffindor. You just wanted to keep wearing the guyliner and the skater pants and pretend you weren’t totally into it.” Steve might look like the geeky nerd but he isn’t. That’s Bucky’s realm. Steve’s the mastermind behind their pranks. He’s the leader. But he also doesn’t look the part and so he’s absorbed whatever it is Bucky might otherwise be embarrassed about.

And he’s fine with that.

“The only reason I still wear that scarf is because it’s from you,” He harumphs, though that might be saying a little too much. They’re not like that. Steve isn’t about to add another issue onto their friendship now when it’s so strained anyway. Not even symbolically. “And the colors go with my complexion. Besides, I only have room for one scarf. That one is the warmest.”

That gets the first genuine laugh out of Bucky. It comes all of a sudden, creaky and hoarse, and his expression actually shifts to surprised as though he didn't expect that sound coming out of his mouth before he gives in to the laugh.

"Hey-- you said you weren't ever gonna tell anyone about my secret shame."

Because it was all true. Bucky had been the dork between them for years, he made them go to the Lord of the Rings films in costume, he made them stand in line at midnight for the Harry Potter books, he was the one that sobbed like a baby when Ned Stark was killed and once again Sean Bean was out of a show.

He misses being that guy. He tried to go to the movies when he got back, wanted to see the newest superhero flick, but he made it about four steps into the foyer of the movie theatre before he fled like the hounds of hell were after him.

"Besides, you were totally into it too. --Jesus, Steve, I really missed you."

So damn much.

“I’m sure Penny knows all about your secret shame at this point,” Steve mutters, play acting his anger. There’s no way in hell he can ever be mad at Bucky for more than half an hour tops, even if they’d often butted heads and called off their friendship during their childhood only to be seen reading comic books and playing video games before the hour was out. It’s just another testament to how close they are.

They clicked at six years old and it’s a bond that’s never managed to do anything but stronger from day one.

Steve moves, both to save his back and because he would really like to hug Bucky. No one is here to see but the dog and though Steve tries to man up as much as possible and not be that snot nosed little sick kid always hanging on the bigger boys in a ‘sensitive’ or ‘girly’ way. He doesn’t know why being emotional is girly or why being girly is bad, but he does know that he tries to fly under the radar when he can. And no. That’s not a short joke.

His bones creek as he gets up and Penny licks her chops and moved forward, towards him, both paws lightly padding the floor as if she’s making a low level warning. Steve smirks.

“Call off your backup, Barnes. I’m coming in.”

Bucky has never wanted Steve to be anything other than what he was. If other people called him girly and assumed that was bad, they just either didn't know any kickass girls or didn't bother to look beneath Steve's unassuming outer shell to see the bravest guy in the world underneath.

Braver than Bucky, he always had been. Always would be.

Penny growls low in her throat as a secondary warning before Bucky lets her know it's okay through a hand gesture. She's good at her job, so she retreats to lie down a short distance away, though her ears stay pricked and she's ready for if this goes wrong. She knows her human doesn't take well to touching.

But this is Steve. It has to be okay. So he let's Steve enfold him in his arms and he tries not to stiffen up too much, even holds him back loosely with the one arm he has left to him now.

"I'm still gonna kick your ass after all of this. I remember getting a letter from Becca telling me you tried to join up yourself."

Steve fits pretty well against Bucky, legs under him on the sofa, knees up and his body pressed under Bucky’s arm. It’s not entirely comfortable facing the back of the couch without support but his arms are around Bucky’s neck and his friend has him. That’s good enough for now.

“Becca’s a liar,” Steve says, face against one strong shoulder. “I tried fourteen times before they told me that if I kept making up fake names and going to different recruitment centers, I’ll have to go to jail.”

Steve is pretty sure that he can handle jail. He’d get a lot of art and reading done. But it’s not exactly sexy so tell future boyfriends that he has a rap sheet for trying and failing to get into the army. That’s actually more embarrassing than anything, but he knows Bucky might get a kick out of it.

“Turns our that being able to hear and see and jog in place for longer than a minute are all very important parts of being in the Army.”

"Why were you even trying to enlist, Steve?"

It's a gentle question but it's tempered underneath with genuine anger. Everything he had ever done was to try and give his sisters and his best friend a better life, to keep Steve safe. It was harder than it should be given that his body tried to kill him every few months and he had a propensity for running face first into people's fists, but he tried.

So why the hell would he try and enlist? He had to know that he'd be refused, he's had health problems his whole damn life.

"I thought you really wanted to be an artist, what changed?"

He doesn’t want to answer. His breath curls from his lips and catches in the edge of the hoodie against Bucky’s neck. It seems so dumb now, admitting this. Bucky sounds angry, and that’s exactly what he doesn’t want. Not when this extended embrace is something he’s wanted for over a year. Or two years— When’s the last time he held Bucky like this? When was the last time this was all right? He shifts his face so his cheek is against the curve of his own upper arm, dreadfully thin, and does his best to man up.

“You were gone.” It’s not enough of an explanation and Steve tightens his grip, as if he’s afraid Bucky will dump him to the floor or lift him up physically and drop him outside. That’s a ridiculous thought. Steve might be small and compact but he’s not easy to toss around. Bucky would know that for a fact. “I didn’t know what to do with myself when you were gone. I know why you did it, I know it had been a guaranteed pay day and health care and you could get your sisters back and maybe this is selfish but I should have been allowed to go with you. Maybe I can’t shoot a gun right, but I could do something. Pilot a drone. Or... I don’t know.”

Steve feels useless.

“I wanted to help.”

There haven't been many times when Bucky has felt sorry for Steve. Even when he's been wheezing and in hospital with yet another bout of pneumonia, the fire inside him resists being pitied with such ferocity that Bucky rarely has. He never worried much when the doctors said he might die, because he knew better. Steve could keep himself functioning on sheer stubbornness alone.

But he feels for him now. He feels an aching pang deep in his chest that's a mingle of sympathy and affection. To know Steve was willing to risk jail to follow him made him cling a little tighter into that hug. He must have been so frustrated to get turned away time and time again. He'd never thought about how Steve must have felt being left behind, unable to help, and that feeling must be worse now that Bucky had come back in pieces as feared.

"You helped, Steve." It's low and soothing. Not an admission he could see himself making to just anyone, but he has a feeling Steve needs to hear it. "I used to imagine conversations with you at night when I was-- there. Knowing you were here, and you'd look out for the girls for me even if I didn't come back, it kept me going. But if you'd shown up, I'd have hit you so hard you'd have been shipped back home on medical immediately."

It’s probably stupid to feel comfortable enough to want to sleep right now, but Steve feels like he really could just drop off comfortably and drool on Bucky’s shoulder if the conversation hadn’t been so heavy. But it is heavy and Steve is feeling sick to his stomach despite the delicious smell of food from his half eaten burger calling him back for more.

“Why do you keep insisting you could win in a fight against me? Unless the army gave you a titanium skeleton and laser vision, there’s no way you’d be able to kick his ass.” And this is coming from the guy that used to sit on Bucky’s back as he did push ups for added resistance.

This whole thing is turning a little too much into a snuggle fest and so Steve extracts himself from under Bucky’s arm and turns so that his back is supported against the poorly padded arm of the couch. He stretches his legs across the cushions to press his socked feet against Bucky’s leg. Hopefully that’s not too much of an intrusion. He just needs to touch him, as right or wrong as that might be.

Bucky can tell him otherwise if it’s too much.

"It's just bravado, because I'm so scared of you."

He's not sure how Steve has managed to do it, but right here and now he feels more human than he has done in a long time. Not perfect, not by any means, but he can let Steve's feet rest against him and he can joke and it's okay... it's not the abysmal failure that he thought it might have been.

"But if you're not too busy lifting weights and showing off how tough you are tomorrow, maybe we could have lunch? I don't know what your class schedule is at the moment, but I have-- uh, I have to do something on campus, a kind of class, so I'll be round there."

He'll try, he really will. Even if the idea of the slog back to normality is enough to make his brain feel like it'll ooze out of his ears.

If Bucky is worried about an oozing brain then Steve will just pack his ears with cotton to keep that from happening. “Class at ten and free from one to three. I have pottery from three to four and then something at the book store.” He’s not willing to commit to the fact that he’s working two jobs and then going to school on top of it because there is still a fight lingering in the air and any spark might cause a reaction that neither are prepared for.

Steve reaches over for his burger and rests it on one knee, picking at the solidifying cheese that had melted onto the wrapper. It looks kind of gross but that just makes it taste better.

“So lunch will work. I can show you around life drawing. I’ve been working on this massive piece. I’ll bring the lunch.” He doesn’t want to share Bucky yet. He’ll have the eyes of everyone on him in the quad.

"Isn't life drawing painting nude people? Are you gonna show me some giant penis that you've been working on, because most people don't think that's appropriate for lunch conversation."

He has the tiny making of a smile at his lips, even knowing that he won't be in a good mood tomorrow after his stupid appointment. He hates the stuff he does as Cumberland House, the little unit that's attached to the university campus where they do some specialist classes for people with specific problems.

But then again, having lunch with just Steve in the art room sounds like a way better plan than outside with a bunch of other people, much more relaxing.

"My thing finishes at one thirty so I can be there by one forty-five, okay?"

“If it’s going to make you feel inadequate, I’ll only show you the little penises I’ve been working on,” Steve promises, a brightness to his voice. They can’t pretend everything is all right again but they can both feel good about what this might be.

With the tine set and the place decided on, Steve finishes his burger, takes another for the walk home, and leaves Bucky to his thoughts. It’s a long night for Steve. He can’t sleep, he’s too wound up and too grateful to have Bucky back, and after the nightmares come (mostly where he’s unable to catch Bucky from falling off of a cliff or a train or a building), sleep is out of the question.

He paints instead. He has a damaged canvas half his size set up in the living room behind the sofa and though he’d been doing a still life of Natasha’s ruined, marked up toe shoes she always leaves on the floor, he spreads gesso over the half finished work and sketches something else. It’s more abstract, a moonscape really, a splotch of dark colors and stark white that overlap his feelings.

He might be tired in the morning, but by the time one thirty rolls around, the classroom is empty and Steve has set up two placemats on the back table so that they can share cheese fries and a few slices of pizza among the penises and breasts.

Bucky is in a really bad mood by the time he lets out of his stupid class. He yelled at the teacher for just doing her job, and now he feels a horrible mixture of guilty for being such a shit and frustrated that he has to do anything like this at all. He wishes he hadn't even come to this stupid session today.

He very nearly forgets that he's meant to meet Steve at all, and only catching sight of a flyer on one of the university boards advertising for people to come and model for life drawing sessions reminds him. A couple of students start to approach him when he enters the building, perhaps to ask him if he's there to volunteer or maybe if he's a new student, but something about his expression means that they give him a wide berth.

He should have brought Penny. He knows she's allowed most places because she's a registered service animal, but he feels like he has a target when she has her vest on. It's a big beacon for everyone that he's different. It's stupid, how is she meant to do her job if he doesn't take her out with him? But that's how it goes at the moment.

He's scowling and tense when he stalks into the hall and catches sight of Steve and his dumb little picnic, dumping his backpack next to the table and sliding into a chair before he even says hello.

"--sorry I'm late."

“You’re not.” But he is. Steve is just s gentleman. He’d almost given up on Bucky, cheese fries taking on a look very similar to the way the cheese on the wrapper had the night before. He’s got his pencils out and he’s working on nothing in particular, shading in a foot whose toes have all been purposefully over extended and spread out, mostly curled. The pose had been difficult for the subject to maintain but Steve likes a challenge and his memory is one of his best qualities. He doesn’t need her to be present to finish the work from earlier.

The smile on his face fades as Bucky’s gloom cloud looms. He tries to get it back again but it refuses to listen to him and so he props his chin in his hand and uses the top of his pencil to nudge over the triangle-shaped box where their pizza slices have been stacked.

“Sounds like you’re having as good a day as I am,” he says, which is hardly true. Bucky’s is likely so much worse. “Finally my turn to be the subject tomorrow. I can’t sit still for too long and my spine is going to be a nightmare for these guys to draw.”

He’s embarrassed by his body. It does the best it can for him but it’s still stunted. Thank God he doesn’t have a crush on anyone in class. He’d be mortified.

Bucky's impressive scowl is the answer to that question, but it fades a little when he takes in what Steve is saying and the meaning behind it. Maybe most people might think Steve doesn't care, he puts up such a good front about not being bothered by his health problems or not letting his looks define him, that people don't realise how much it hurts him when others laugh or mock.

"You have to take turns? You mean you have to sit naked tomorrow for everyone else?"

He can sort of see why it would be done, make the artists do it so they'll always respect any models who go through it after them. But it seems unusually cruel to enforce it. Any models, after all, will have volunteered and thus agreed to do it, it's a different situation.

"Jeez, Steve, if you don't want to do it, don't let them bully you into it. But if you do it, then remember that you're just as good as anyone. A damn sight prettier than me now."

“Now? Try always,” Steve says with his usual defiance. He’s never let Bucky be better than him, though of course Bucky is and always has been in many of the ways that count. “It’s fine. I knew it going in. One of the stipulations of taking this class. You can pose however you want. Like... see Sandy up there?” He makes a gesture with a pencil and then nabs one of the fries. The cluster of drawn figures are all of the same girl, chunky but with a pretty face. She’s seated with her back to the room so that all of her private areas are faced away from any of the artists. Not every figure is like that. One of the guys early on just spread out on his back and slept the entire time. Some just sat on chairs and crossed their legs and arms.

Steve hasn’t decided on what to do with himself. He’s not sure it matters.

“Imperfect people are the best to draw. Lack of symmetry makes it fun. But... I don’t know. I’m just not feeling it.” That said, he won’t back down. This is a fight. And like every fight, Steve is going to win.

He’s just never been naked with the lights on before.

Not for a few years.

“I’m gonna pop some pain killers and listen to some podcasts. It’s fine. No, really. Promise. Have some pizza.”

Steve might say it's fine, but it's obviously not, he has to be nervous as hell to have even mentioned it. But of course he's going to do it, because the idiot has never backed down from a fight in his life, metaphorical or literal. Bucky's life would have been a hell of a lot easier if he had run away sometimes, he'd have had to patch up his dumb best friend less often for one.

"Do you wanna borrow Penny for the day?"

It would be good for the dog to get out of the house, and it was kind of what she was trained for, helping people deal with stressful situations. Okay, maybe not exactly what she was trained for, and Steve wasn't her assigned person, but she might be able to help anyway.

He grabs one of the pizza boxes and fumbles a slice out, still focused on Steve and his problem, which at least has the beneficial side effect of making his own frustration leak away a bit.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject