The bathtub was a wonderful spot to think, and Rob's bathtub was quite good for that: a vintage cast-iron clawfoot tub with a tall shower attachment, tucked into a nook once occupied by a boring old generic bath and shower fixture. One could fill the clawfoot tub nice and deep, even add some bubble bath if one wanted, and have a nice long soak and contemplate whatever was on one's mind.

Rob was currently soaking in the tub, arms draped over the curved sides, the water nice and steamy hot. He needed the warmth of the water to soak his aching, tired muscles; after the incidents of earlier in the day, he figured he'd need a muscle relaxer too, which was why the bottle of Glenlivet was next to the tub within easy reach. It wasn't just his muscles that were sore either -- his brain hurt in all kinds of interesting ways, none of them fun. The house was quiet; Sid was with her girlfriend Joanna, and he'd not put on any music. Plenty of nothing in which to organize his thoughts.

Chief thought on his mind: how he nearly died.

Faustite (may that ******** rot in hell, if he didn't survive whatever happened to him) had him dead to rights. Kneeling on top of him, one hand at his throat in a choke hold, the other diving into his chest to pull out his starseed; he couldn't breathe, he couldn't fight, he couldn't move. He was as good as dead in that moment. Whatever had happened that ended up saving his life (and he was positive that Princess Ganymede had something to do with that) couldn't have come at a better time. He wondered if it had something to do with Faustite being partially youmafied, or whatever caused the General to burn like his core was on fire, because when he'd looked at him afterwards he looked… not on fire. Good for him, bad for Faustite.

He looked down at his chest for the umpteenth time, still expecting to find some sort of mark there from the attempt to relieve him of his starseed, and again he saw nothing but smooth skin. He'd done the same thing all those years ago when some rando Captain tried to yank his starseed, with the same result; but this attempt was different. The sensation of Faustite's charred, clawed fingers burning their way into his chest, searing through skin and sinew, shoving his ribcage aside like a wobbly chid's toy, would never leave him.

Reaching for the Glenlivet, he hauled it up and drank a deep gulp of the whiskey straight from the bottle, as if the strong booze would help him forget. He knew it wouldn't; but maybe it would make processing all this easier.

He knew it wouldn't do that, either.

Rob sighed deeply and let his shoulders sink below the surface of the bath water. Faustite was going to be a thorn in his side for years to come, he was certain of it; even if the Negaverse General didn't survive whatever happened to him, there would always be the questions. Most of them, at least the initial questions, he'd gotten answers to that night he found Faustite crumpled in a crater in the pavement, having likely been tossed there by an Eternal. But those combined with the events of the Farnsworth Building incident only raised more questions that, if he was lucky, he might never get answers to.

Like, how had the youmafication happened in the first place? Did Faustite allow it to happen, or was it forced on him? And why? Had he ******** up somehow and that was punishment, or was it an intentional enhancement to his abilities as a General? It certainly made him a formidable foe, being able to do things with fire like that. He'd said that the humanity had been removed from him, leaving him with only enough to function and think; now that the youmafication was seemingly gone, would he revert back to a more human threat? Or would he go through the process again, to regain the powers? Again, provided he survived whatever had happened to him…

Snorting a sigh, Rob took another deep swig of whiskey. Why did it matter so much? Faustite was his enemy, no matter whether he had the soul of a youma or not. He shouldn't even care about the man. Boy, rather -- he looked like a teenager. That was another thing: how did an apparent kid get so high in the ranking system of the Negaverse? Rob snorted a wry laugh this time; he was a fine one to question the youth of the Negaverse, when there were actual children fighting on the side of Order.

But back to the matter at hand. Maybe, he thought, maybe he was obsessing over Faustine because the man had nearly killed him. That seemed fair; lots of people became obsessed with things that hurt them, brought them to the brink of death. Was he obsessing though? Or was he just processing his own near-death? Rob frowned; he didn't want to obsess over that ******** arsehole -- he didn't deserve it. He was dead, or as good as; he was no longer a threat, even if he lived. With any luck he'd never encounter him again.

"Fat ******** chance of that," Rob muttered, taking another drink.

The whiskey and the hot bath were both serving their purposes: the bath was relaxing his tired body and helping him think, and the whiskey was helping him not care what he thought. He caught himself nodding off in the tub, the bottle of Glenlivet (now seriously depleted of its contents) slipping from his fingers to touch the bathroom floor. The bath was still so warm, though; maybe he would just stay there a bit longer, to make sure he got a good relaxing soak in. Taking one more swig from the bottle, he set it down on the floor -- didn't want to lose a precious drop of it -- and closed his eyes. Before too long he was asleep, gently snoring with his arms draped over the sides of the tub the only thing keeping his head above the water. He would wake up later to find the water gone tepid and his head hurting; but for now, a nap was the respite he needed.

(wc: 1067)