It had been a somewhat frustrating day.
Ienzo had been so sure they were close to a breakthrough the night before, enough that it hadn’t surprised him when he left for bed with Even still typing away. But this morning, Even had still been there, venting his frustrations in a tirade only broken up by the sips of coffee Ienzo brought specifically to shut him up, and taking haughty issue with Ienzo’s entirely clinical observation that Even’s sleeplessness was likely to affect their results. So Ienzo was still correcting some sleep-addled mistakes, and it was starting to get to him when he decided to slip out of the lab for a bite.
He was scowling at his shoes, absorbed in thought (part science, part pettiness) when he spotted someone else in the hall and looked up with an intake of breath. “Listen. I’m not in the mood to--”
Oh.
“--Uh. Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you,” he realized, noting after the fact that his brain had interpreted “blonde” and “dark clothing” as Even (or, rather, Vexen). Clearly, his memories were still working out some kinks.
He tilted his head, hair shifting out of one eye. “It’s been a while. How are you doing?”
That was the correct question to ask here. Right?
