[After the last several nights of feverish, skin-crawling, detoxing insomnia, Dixon's finally found the (literally) magical cure to his withdrawal and is getting a few hours of legitimate heavy sleep. As a persona generally non grata among the squad, but also someone not really built to find any restorative rest in the chilly nights, he's taken up refuge in a room down the hall from Waver's vitriol, his jacket pulled over him like a too-short blanket. He's to the point of drooling on himself when Waver begins his diatribe.
Dixon staggers to his feet, disoriented and pissed off. It's not a great combination. His eyes are a bit unfocused and his hair in a static-electric funk when he stalks down the hall to see what the hell is going on. He blinks and scowls at the kid he finds when he turns the corner.]
1.
Dixon staggers to his feet, disoriented and pissed off. It's not a great combination. His eyes are a bit unfocused and his hair in a static-electric funk when he stalks down the hall to see what the hell is going on. He blinks and scowls at the kid he finds when he turns the corner.]
Do you fucking mind?