The Worn, Fraying End of the Rope....

[palace-michael.livejournal.com]

It's evening, and Hugh is gone. Michael, who hasn't eaten in nine hours, is sitting behind his desk running his eyes over tables of figures, although comprehension has been somewhat lacking for at least the last hour. Michael, who hasn't gotten laid in thirty-six days, is ready pitch his com through the window, then his chair, then his desk.

Guy waltzes through Hugh's empty office, and knocks on the open door, peering in at Michael. "Hey there, mate! Just thought I'd let you know that Scarlett and I called a truce. You look like shit! Whyncha go get laid or summat?"

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