( In hindsight, maybe it's entirely possible that the things Jack was hallucina-dreaming were less than pleasant. Frankly, they usually are — and that's not normally something worth writing home about. He lives an unpleasant life, he's surrounded by deadly shit all the time, he doesn't get all worked up about it.
But perhaps the familiar tuned into his emotions and experiences does.
Because what bursts out of the splinters and shredded fabric of Kyle's bed is one very, very large raccoon - or perhaps one very, very small dragon. Rita, in all her Clydesdale-sized glory, glowing bright enough to illuminate the room, her full wingspan extended, hissing a furious threat at Kyle, the only discernible other living creature in the room and the one that happens to be standing directly in front of the man she's bonded to.
Perhaps if he hadn't just woken up, perhaps if he had a cup of coffee in his system, his mind would work a little faster. As it stands, the only thing he can think to say initially is just: )
no subject
But perhaps the familiar tuned into his emotions and experiences does.
Because what bursts out of the splinters and shredded fabric of Kyle's bed is one very, very large raccoon - or perhaps one very, very small dragon. Rita, in all her Clydesdale-sized glory, glowing bright enough to illuminate the room, her full wingspan extended, hissing a furious threat at Kyle, the only discernible other living creature in the room and the one that happens to be standing directly in front of the man she's bonded to.
Perhaps if he hadn't just woken up, perhaps if he had a cup of coffee in his system, his mind would work a little faster. As it stands, the only thing he can think to say initially is just: )
Holy shit. Rita?