Murder, They Tweeted #9
Dec. 2nd, 2018 09:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsQuentin wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache . . . that turns out to be the best thing to happen to him all year.
. . .Still can't believe it happened . . .
. . . Did I pack my hats?. . .
. . . Breathin' and breathin' and argh! Song's stuck . . .
. . . She forgot her hats, didn't she? . . .
All the noise woke up Quentin from a gentle, dreamless slumber. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. Why were people talking so loudly? Shouting in the halls. Rude. His head pounded and the rest of his body ached, probably a wine hangover taking over. He would be fine if he could just sleep through it.
. . . Hats! Hats! Where are my . . .
"Shut the fuck up!" Quentin shouted. Though it came out as more of a light rasp; his mouth so dry he could barely make a sound himself.
Beside him Hank woke with a start. "S'what's wrong?" he mumbled, turning to face the pink-haired man on the pillow beside him.
... actually here. Oh my stars and garters.
Quentin had that brief moment of "Who's in bed with me? Oh, right" that often follows a night of alcohol and sex. Though this instance was not mixed with the equally familiar feeling of regret and desperate desire to put his pants on and run out the door. Sunlight gently filtered in through the closed blinds, providing enough light that Quentin could make out Hank's form but not blind himself when he opened his eyes. The sight brought a smirk to his lips. "You said the same thing last night," he cooed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist. "'Oh my stars and garters.'"
"Pardon?" Hank hitched himself up on his elbows and reached for his glasses on the bedside table - only to find they weren't there.
... where are they? The bathroom? Or maybe...
A white-hot knife stabbed Quentin in the brain, and he threw the covers over his head to shut everything out. Was his hangover paying him back in kind in pain for the pleasure he had experienced last night? That hardly seemed fair. "Quiet down, Henry!" His voice was muffled from underneath the sheets. "You're talking too loud."
Hank didn't see how that could possibly be, and crawled a bit closer to lift the covers and peer underneath at Quentin. "Are you feeling alright? Hyperacusis can come on very suddenly and should be seen by a doctor."
Best not to tell him it could be a sign of serious brain injury, the worry it would incur could worsen the symptoms...
Quentin immediately sat up — and immediately regretted that decision as the brain knives stabbed him again. "Brain injury?! What the hell!"
Contrary to his dire thoughts, Hank's expression was positively delighted. "I didn't verbalise that aloud. Do you realise what that means?"
"I expended most of my brain power yesterday solving a murder, and then you fucked the rest out of me. Why don't you tell me what it means?"
A hand crept out to grasp his, giving it a tight squeeze. Your telepathy must be functioning again.
The words came with some static, like a radio with poor reception. Still, one key word was loud and clear, and hearing it transformed Quentin. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he stared at Hank like he was an angel, come to deliver a miracle from heaven. "Well. Fuck me."
Hank neither said nor thought the obvious response - if anything his embarrassment was doubly apparent. "The number of guests in the resort must make for a cacophonous awakening. We ought to pack up and find you somewhere quieter."
"No no no, I . . ." As vigorous a telepath as he had been, Quentin also paradoxically had been terrible at maintaining mental shields. Stray thoughts constantly filtered through. Still, he could manage the basics. The patterns Xavier and Jean had taught him were imprinted in his memory, and he drew them in his head. Slowly, the voices grew quieter, more distant, until they were nothing more than whispers. "There. That should hold me for at least a couple hours. Heh, I think I owe you another thank you, Henry."
"I hardly think I could take credit for _that_. It's a coincidence, nothing more."
Quentin shook his head. "I've been struggling for 15 months to bring it back and I have nothing to show for it. But something happened overnight and you're the variable there. I bet your dick could cure cancer. You should look into that."
"Now, let's not be crude," Hank said reprovingly, though there was an element of affection to it. "Our... night together was not the only recent occurrence - there was also the investigation and successful capture of a murderer. It seems equally likely that something about that enquiry contributed to the return of your telepathy, perhaps the mental skills required or the various interactions you've had over the past day."
"Valid, but I like my explanation more. Your glasses are in the bathroom, by the way. You left them on the counter before you came into the shower. Speaking of, I'm a mess again so I could do with a quick one. Care to join me?"
Hank squinted and peered at the bedside clock; Quentin could just make out the murmur of his thoughts.
...important... 't want to appear too eager...
"I suppose I would benefit from undertaking ablutions as well."
"You make it sound so spiritual." To his credit, Quentin did not react to the invading thought. His expression remained the same, at least. The rest of his body was less subtle. "Well, come, then. Supplication through prayer is best done on your knees."
. . .Still can't believe it happened . . .
. . . Did I pack my hats?. . .
. . . Breathin' and breathin' and argh! Song's stuck . . .
. . . She forgot her hats, didn't she? . . .
All the noise woke up Quentin from a gentle, dreamless slumber. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. Why were people talking so loudly? Shouting in the halls. Rude. His head pounded and the rest of his body ached, probably a wine hangover taking over. He would be fine if he could just sleep through it.
. . . Hats! Hats! Where are my . . .
"Shut the fuck up!" Quentin shouted. Though it came out as more of a light rasp; his mouth so dry he could barely make a sound himself.
Beside him Hank woke with a start. "S'what's wrong?" he mumbled, turning to face the pink-haired man on the pillow beside him.
... actually here. Oh my stars and garters.
Quentin had that brief moment of "Who's in bed with me? Oh, right" that often follows a night of alcohol and sex. Though this instance was not mixed with the equally familiar feeling of regret and desperate desire to put his pants on and run out the door. Sunlight gently filtered in through the closed blinds, providing enough light that Quentin could make out Hank's form but not blind himself when he opened his eyes. The sight brought a smirk to his lips. "You said the same thing last night," he cooed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist. "'Oh my stars and garters.'"
"Pardon?" Hank hitched himself up on his elbows and reached for his glasses on the bedside table - only to find they weren't there.
... where are they? The bathroom? Or maybe...
A white-hot knife stabbed Quentin in the brain, and he threw the covers over his head to shut everything out. Was his hangover paying him back in kind in pain for the pleasure he had experienced last night? That hardly seemed fair. "Quiet down, Henry!" His voice was muffled from underneath the sheets. "You're talking too loud."
Hank didn't see how that could possibly be, and crawled a bit closer to lift the covers and peer underneath at Quentin. "Are you feeling alright? Hyperacusis can come on very suddenly and should be seen by a doctor."
Best not to tell him it could be a sign of serious brain injury, the worry it would incur could worsen the symptoms...
Quentin immediately sat up — and immediately regretted that decision as the brain knives stabbed him again. "Brain injury?! What the hell!"
Contrary to his dire thoughts, Hank's expression was positively delighted. "I didn't verbalise that aloud. Do you realise what that means?"
"I expended most of my brain power yesterday solving a murder, and then you fucked the rest out of me. Why don't you tell me what it means?"
A hand crept out to grasp his, giving it a tight squeeze. Your telepathy must be functioning again.
The words came with some static, like a radio with poor reception. Still, one key word was loud and clear, and hearing it transformed Quentin. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he stared at Hank like he was an angel, come to deliver a miracle from heaven. "Well. Fuck me."
Hank neither said nor thought the obvious response - if anything his embarrassment was doubly apparent. "The number of guests in the resort must make for a cacophonous awakening. We ought to pack up and find you somewhere quieter."
"No no no, I . . ." As vigorous a telepath as he had been, Quentin also paradoxically had been terrible at maintaining mental shields. Stray thoughts constantly filtered through. Still, he could manage the basics. The patterns Xavier and Jean had taught him were imprinted in his memory, and he drew them in his head. Slowly, the voices grew quieter, more distant, until they were nothing more than whispers. "There. That should hold me for at least a couple hours. Heh, I think I owe you another thank you, Henry."
"I hardly think I could take credit for _that_. It's a coincidence, nothing more."
Quentin shook his head. "I've been struggling for 15 months to bring it back and I have nothing to show for it. But something happened overnight and you're the variable there. I bet your dick could cure cancer. You should look into that."
"Now, let's not be crude," Hank said reprovingly, though there was an element of affection to it. "Our... night together was not the only recent occurrence - there was also the investigation and successful capture of a murderer. It seems equally likely that something about that enquiry contributed to the return of your telepathy, perhaps the mental skills required or the various interactions you've had over the past day."
"Valid, but I like my explanation more. Your glasses are in the bathroom, by the way. You left them on the counter before you came into the shower. Speaking of, I'm a mess again so I could do with a quick one. Care to join me?"
Hank squinted and peered at the bedside clock; Quentin could just make out the murmur of his thoughts.
...important... 't want to appear too eager...
"I suppose I would benefit from undertaking ablutions as well."
"You make it sound so spiritual." To his credit, Quentin did not react to the invading thought. His expression remained the same, at least. The rest of his body was less subtle. "Well, come, then. Supplication through prayer is best done on your knees."
