careful where you set things down, hob gadling— there’s now a sleek black cat curled up on your favorite jumper and he shows no signs of moving any time soon.
❛ oi ! ❜ he calls out, more knee-jerk reaction than it is out of any intention to reprimand, as he wrestles with a box. or rather, a few of them. and you might be wonderin' what exactly he's doin' ? well, packing, of course.
the perils of being an immortal and all that. you'd only get a solid twenty years before neighbours and coworkers alike are gonna suspect that the botox you've gotten are a little too good. sure, they wouldn't have pegged you for an immortal, certainly, but — well. after the thames, it truly couldn't hurt to be a little more careful. hob grins towards the black cat now, though.
he tries not to think of another whom he hadn't ever— didn't have the chance to see in this form. alas, right ?
❛ — and here i thought you'd be here to help me out. ❜ he shakes his head, still grinning, before he does go ahead and set the boxes down. his books, first. then, some of his more favoured kitchen utensils and clothes. most of the rest could stay. he's supposed to die, after all. no need to make those who'll visit him later question the legitimacy of his so-called 'death' when they've found a clean flat, instead of one meant for someone who're gone too soon.
❛ nah, s'alright, ❜ hob rubs at the other's head with the back of his two fingers — gentle, slow, appreciative. living a long life is lonely; hob is glad now he's decided that it didn't have to be. ❛ get some rest. i'll wake you up around dinner, yeah ? ❜