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[renevatio.livejournal.com]

Lincoln is a wee bit broken.

A few days ago, he was given a copy for Trainspotting so he could study Scottish accents. He has since watched Trainspotting. He cried the first time, though for the most part he stared, horrified and unable to decipher what the actors were saying.

He took it to his room and studied it. He watched it twice more with closed captioning, the second time saying the words with Renton whenever he spoke. It unnerved him when his voice and the character's onscreen meshed so exactly. He forced himself to sit through all the weirdickyscary parts, the drug addict parts and the sex parts. (He still wasn't sold on sex yet. The more he found out, the less he wanted anything to do with it.) He reasoned that if he could stand Dr. Merrick's "nice tests," he could handle this.

Now he's sitting at the Bar, staring at the untouched pint of bitters he ordered without quite knowing why. He's sure of one thing, though, and he says it aloud to hear the strangeness of the accent in his mouth all at once.

"It's shite being Scottish."

[[OOC: It's been a while since mun saw Trainspotting, so if he's fudgy on plot details, apologies.]]

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[renevatio.livejournal.com]

He points in a vaguely left-and-up-ish direction. "It's that way. I'll walk with you."

Nobody's paying attention to them. No Proximity warnings, no forced separation by censors... it's fucking fantastic, is what it is! (That was a word he hadn't heard before Trainspotting, but it was used liberally, so it was probably pretty common.) Lincoln leads her up the stairs and down the hall until they reach her door, which is directly across from his. He sticks his hands in his pockets. "Well, here it is." He points over his shoulder. "That's my room."

[got-a-number.livejournal.com]

She doesn't realize she misses contact--dreaded proximity, not so dreaded after all--until he's stepped away. There are two contradictory urges at war. To let him go away is to lose the only person she knows. Even if that separation is only temporary, only short, it feels wrong. But she's never had anyone, let alone a man, in her quarters before.

Then again, these aren't really her quarters. It's more an impersonal space that she is temporarily occupying. She keys open her door.

"Come inside, Lincoln." She pouts her lip, exaggerating what is already an authentic pathetic look. "Please? I don't want to be alone."