Talking with a Friend
@theheadlessgroom wanna play with Survivor Sin?))
Sinclair was sitting in his lounge chair in the living room, twiddling with the telegraph machine for the fifth time that day. Something was going on with the Morse, making too many beeps. He assumed it was a sticky button, and he was correct. It was just proving difficult to fix.
Blair had gone out for a business related trip, leaving him alone at home with his wolf, Pisces, who was currently sitting at his feet and his mechanical experiments. But it was getting boring rather quickly. And he missed Blair’s voice that would fill the empty silence of the house normally. Well, he realized he also needed it. He found himself far more unnerved by silence than he thought himself to be.
So he guessed that was why Blair thought ahead and contacted Randall to check on his unofficial (via paper at least)/official husband every once and a while over the week and a half he’d be gone. Make sure Sinclair didn’t fall down the porch and break his other leg, burn down the house, fall too far into thoughts he was already still recovering from, stuff like that. Really, it was just giving the crippled man something to look forward to in his bouts of loneliness at home.
So when the door to the quaint little residence was knocked on, Sinclair brightened considerably. He hustled to get his cane, more or less staggering over and opening the door eagerly. He grinned at the smaller man, the grin still somewhat subdued but far better than what it used to be, “Hello, Randall.”
