MOVED TO SCORCHSKIN

throws a grape at. hides.

the clock on the wall ticks idly by. how long has she been working? she wouldn’t know -- the pile of paperwork has just been growing by the hour, files full of gruesome images starting to crowd her in. the entire scene gives the effect of some poor wood-mouse burrowed away for the winter in a mess of…stuff. there’s even two baskets full of oranges and grapes, seeing as rey was kind enough to bring on over a personal delivery today. ever since, she’s been rather busy doing – well, whatever rey does – over on the other side of the room. nancy sinatra’s these boots are made for walkin’ plays for the fourth (fifth?) time over on the record. 

the metaphorical bomb drops – in the form of a grape. is it midnight already? the sheer surprise of the fruit-shaped interruption causes her to flash in and out of visibility, seemingly gone one second and back the next, her continued presence only made clear by the trademark offended scoff. the swivel chair spins in place as she directs one accusatory finger towards rey. 

‘i know my rights, and i know you threw that grape. i’m not afraid to use the– the full extent of the – stop laughing! – the full extent of the law to be reimbursed for the distraction you’ve caused me during very busy work hours.’ her stern exterior breaks just a little too quickly, rey collapsing from her hiding place in a fit of infectious giggles. ruthe snorts, pressing her face to her hands and scooting away from all the excess work with a laugh of her own. it seems there’ll be no more time to focus so long as rey’s around. so be it!