Dec. 1st, 2008

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The houseboat is a cozy affair. Not too big for one person, not too small for two.

But right now?

It looks fit for maybe a rather unconcerned cat. There are papers everywhere, clothes thrown around haphazardly, and an obscene number of ashtrays and half-empty glasses. (There are also drugs, but these are the first things Paul takes care of upon returning. You saw nothing.)

There's one couch, an armchair, a coffee table, and a TV, which is currently playing PONG against itself (for who knows how long, really).

It's lived in, if nothing else. As much as Paul complains about it, home is home is home. It's where he's lived for ... some time, now, and he's grown used to its ups and downs. It's familiar, it's safe (for a given value of 'safe', anyway), and it's home.

Paul takes a moment to drink in the fact that he's back home and healed, and then turns to face Kate, holding his arms out to either side before dropping them again.

"Welcome aboard."

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