Coffee Break

Frostfall is supposed to be a time of celebration and togetherness chasing the heels of Candletown’s warm, collective remembrance. Raum definitely feels like he’s chasing the heels of something, but it’s not a holiday — at this point, he’s not sure if he could even rest enough to unwind on a holiday, much as he’s counting the days until he can take a well deserved break.

The only thing is, every time it seems like he’s close to one, some new PR disaster-slash-horror is dumped upon him, sentencing him to a week of damage control. He loves his job — no, really, he loves it, of course he does, why wouldn’t he — but others say he loves being useful. That he loves working. And maybe there’s some truth to that, but if that’s the case, what’s so wrong about wanting to be important? Needed? Sure, his clients might see him as a cog in the machine rather than a person, but if that’s what it takes to get the job done, what’s so wrong with that? It benefits him. Really, it does.

If they don’t think he has feelings to hurt, they’ll be more honest with him. If they don’t think he has a life outside of work, they’ll come to him when they need him, regardless of the hour. If they don’t see him as a person, then he’s part of a team.

Right?

Tremors again. It’s been three hours since his last caf. He’s addicted, he knows it, but it gets the job done. He curls one hand into a fist and dismisses his holoscreen with a beep, fluttering out of his office in an off kilter, exhausted, I’ve-been-running-on-two-hours-of-sleep-for-the-past-week rhythm. Thankfully, there’s a café downstairs where kitbull friendly beverages such as caf are stocked.

He wavers slightly on his path, eyes drooping shut, and it’s with a full body shake that he wakes himself once more, opting to fly out the window rather than wait for the inevitably crowded lift. There are moments, wavering in the air, that he thinks he might fall and plummet to his death.

He has these thoughts a lot.

Another thought: it’s snowing, just barely. He likes this café not only because it stocks caf — kitbull caffeine, a quick hit of astral and arcane and whatever else they stick in it — but because if he picks a window seat, he can spare three minutes to drink his caf and watch the peaceful passersby laugh and walk and smile and do other off the clock things that he hasn’t experienced in years. Since he was born, probably. If that.

His order’s the usual. He’s thinking about it so hard that he almost faceplants into the glass door of the café, but he manages to slip in unnoticed, as always, and practically melt onto the counter when he puts in his order.

When he’s got his caf in one hand, the buzz running through him like a soothing, if electric, balm, he allows himself a whole five minutes to look outside the window today. There are decorations, giant enchanted dancing snowflakes and gingerbread creatures and other frivolous things that he once wished he had the time to enjoy.

Raum sips his caf. Five minutes become ten, then fifteen, then twenty. The snowfall is gentle.

His caf is empty. It’s been empty for ten minutes. He checks the time, his holo buzzing with thirty unread messages, and abruptly hops out of his chair.

Back to work.