[ The way he inflects the word makes it sound like a herculean chore. But he drains his glass of milkshake, before slipping off the stool readily enough. He'd been hoping to shower and then fix himself a proper meal. But that can wait. He owes Korra for his absence, for an entire wasted evening. ]
[ In the nursery, padding over the crinkled newpapers strewn across the floor, he regards the half-constructed cradle. All told, Korra hasn't done a bad job. But the rockers on the underside are rickety, and one of the support strips is crooked. ]
[ Sighing, he sinks to his knees. Patiently reassembling the cradle, he lets the task, the mindful hammering, the careful measuring, flatten out his brain. It's strange: all this effort is for the baby, yet he's not thinking of the baby at all. Hours can pass without a single concrete thought if he's preoccupied: just empty, static wind gusting and swirling through his head, snatches of instructions repeating themselves in an endless loop. The bubbling paranoia -- about Korra, about their future -- that so often manifests itself in other forms, as cold nausea, as nameless dread, is, if not erased, at least temporarily buried under the weight of simple exertion. ]
[ It isn't long before the cradle is finished. Not elaborate, trimmed, with hand-rubbed varnish or intricate carvings -- but styled like a pretty antique, solid enough to bear a squalling brat. My squalling brat, he tries to remind himself. The words mean nothing. ]
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Date: 2015-03-02 02:04 am (UTC)[ The way he inflects the word makes it sound like a herculean chore. But he drains his glass of milkshake, before slipping off the stool readily enough. He'd been hoping to shower and then fix himself a proper meal. But that can wait. He owes Korra for his absence, for an entire wasted evening. ]
[ In the nursery, padding over the crinkled newpapers strewn across the floor, he regards the half-constructed cradle. All told, Korra hasn't done a bad job. But the rockers on the underside are rickety, and one of the support strips is crooked. ]
[ Sighing, he sinks to his knees. Patiently reassembling the cradle, he lets the task, the mindful hammering, the careful measuring, flatten out his brain. It's strange: all this effort is for the baby, yet he's not thinking of the baby at all. Hours can pass without a single concrete thought if he's preoccupied: just empty, static wind gusting and swirling through his head, snatches of instructions repeating themselves in an endless loop. The bubbling paranoia -- about Korra, about their future -- that so often manifests itself in other forms, as cold nausea, as nameless dread, is, if not erased, at least temporarily buried under the weight of simple exertion. ]
[ It isn't long before the cradle is finished. Not elaborate, trimmed, with hand-rubbed varnish or intricate carvings -- but styled like a pretty antique, solid enough to bear a squalling brat. My squalling brat, he tries to remind himself. The words mean nothing. ]