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Circles of Pain.

Morning.  The sounds of traffic, and of neighbours.  Of…

Norman Osborn


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Morning.  The sounds of traffic, and of neighbours.  Of life, the city waking.  And the sun, shining summer-bright through uncurtained windows into a still most-unfurnished bedroom.  A broad, muscled form groans, and tries to hide his face against a smaller, curvier one's shoulder.

Wow.  That was a lot of wine last night, huh?
  • She's not usually this wobbly when hungover. Or.... oh. This green. She catches herself on the doorframe, concentrating on keeping her stomach where it belongs.
    • He stops as well, behind her -- hands on her shoulders, trying to steady her? "Are you alright?"
      • "Just.... very hungover." There is a chair over here, and she is going to sit down. "I'll get the coffee in a moment."
        • "I can make it?" Totally because he's worried about her. Not just because he wants the coffee as soon as possible. >_>
          • She doesn't want the coffee so much any more. Bleh. Milk. Milk might settle her stomach. So she is going to get milk. He can make coffee if he wants.
            • He does want. So he gets to that, thanking the merciful gods that they have at least a few scoops of it already ground. (Running the grinder, right now? Not the most appealing idea.) Soon, the smell of brewing coffee fills the room. And if she has not, he'll move to get bowls and the cereal. Cooperation! \o/
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