screwloose: (Melancholy)
[personal profile] screwloose
Stein sat on the floor in his favourite laboratory, the cold of the concrete soaking into his body and leaching the warmth from it even through his clothes and lab coat. He hadn't turned on the lights when he entered the room, so it was nearly pitch-black except for a small square of light that lay across the examination table in the middle.

At some point when talking to Birkin, he had knocked over a rolling tray table, and several beakers had shattered, sprinkling glass like caltrops across the floor.

His phone sat on the floor next to him, forgotten. At thirty he had stopped counting, but Birkin still wasn't here.

He sat against the wall, humming to himself and flinching away from dark movements and shapes that only he could see, his eyes darting around restlessly in their sockets.
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screwloose

October 2011

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