Prelude| Opening Credits
Prelude| Opening Credits
___Mills attempted to act normally. He got up and stretched. And asked himself if he should go about his morning like usual. This certainly was his bed. And this certainly was his room. But this certainly wasn’t the way he kept it. And he certainly had not had a sleeping companion for the last three years, especially one that came in late at night covered in blood asking for a place to hide ‘just in case.’
___At this time he usually would make himself coffee. Pick up the news outside and then continue with a breakfast he decided the Sunday before.
Today he broke his schedule. A shower, to really wake himself up. A breakfast. For two.
___You don’t know what he likes.
___You can wait on breakfast.
___You're a very patient man.
___His bouncing knee said otherwise. He needed to do something. But waking him was out of the list of things to do. Mills wanted him to wake up happily.
___Mills wanted him to want to wake up to this.
___Sans the blood... And possible wounds. And the fact that they barely know each other-well- barely a harsh word. But definitely, didn’t know each other enough to sleep in the same bed. But it was comfortable, almost as if it was right. Or maybe you’re just lonely.
___His knee broke into double time of bounces.
Being in a dreamy reverie while housing a potential criminal is not good. But, what can you do?
___Mills leaned across the table and grabbed one of his spare journals, it was a hardcover blue watercolor journal with a gold stripe along the bottom. It was sitting in his designated journal pile when he inevitably gets gifted a ‘office gift’ by someone who should know him better. Usually he gets multiple journals sometimes of the same design
___ “You just seem like the writerly type.” Would usually be said as he looked down a moleskin journal with ‘Dreamers are the real creators’ scrawled centered in metallic font of the cover. He’d offer a grateful smile and accept the gifted as graciously as he can fake it and wondered if he was just better at gifting than his coworkers. At least winter parties had spiked eggnog.
___He couldn’t blame them journals can be thoughtful and something useful, and at least these gifts he would never feel the need to immediately throw out. Unlike the ‘gifts’ from a…. Well, let’s be blunt, a perverted co-worker he has been petitioning the firing for years. At least.
___So, he has a pile of office gifts that grows through the years. He doesn’t really know what to do with them, usually. But today is an unusual day and he needs something to do. Idle hands and all…
___Opening the blank journal, he drew a timid line with a pen, making sure the ink was running. And began.
___“My name is mills,
I work in the education department as a substitute principal.”
This is stupid.
___“I’m getting these thoughts down because there’s no-one- “
Now I sound lonely.
___“I really trust to hold this information. But I need some place to say it. My life has gone, in a manner of speaking. Haywire. And it started about—”
___He looked up at the calendar. It was puppy themed. He flushed wondering what his sleeping guest thought of it. What did the guest even think of him? He continued writing.
___“One month ago.”
Postin' this here bc AO3 still won't let me in
This is a Mills/Zhivago fic uhhhh yeah bye