So there I am, sitting in one of those mind numbing study cubicles at the university that is my second home, though sometimes I think it is the cubicle that is my second home, when I vaguely hear the sounds of someone's feet on the carpeting over the soft noise of my headphones.

Surreptitiously I glance down and into the isle, not wanting to concentrate on the studies I should, needing distraction instead. I see dark scuffed work boots - familiar some how as they connect to rolled up, worn in dark denim jeans. About mid-thigh - mid-very-powerful-thigh - I see a flash of furry black.

It's a plot bunny being flung at me.

I drop my highlighter in a flurry to catch the frightened and wily creature, only afterwards getting a chance to look at the man I know has finally decided to grace me with his presence once more.

He takes a moment to roll his eyes at my apparently too-complicated headphones, but he manages to slip them off easily enough, using both hands.

The sudden silence hits me hard, with him bending over me like this, one large hand on my table in front of me - on my highlighted notes - the other on the small cushioned ledge I lean against. Being trapped like this does nothing for my good intentions of straight A's this semester, I think, reacting as I shouldn't to his presence. He's my muse, and I'm his bard, of sorts. It's a professional relationship and drooling, among other things, isn't a part of it. But I know myself, and I know I've lived too long vicariously through my characters.

He knows this too. I can see it in his grin. He nods to the trembling black furry mass of plot in my arms and manages to growl out a whisper in my ear, not breaking the complete silence, but rather blending with it.

"Don't say I never did nothin' for ya."

I snort at that quietly and smile as I laugh at him inside, but before I realize, he's walking on again. I rope him back to me with my eyes and with my mind. Part of me knows that because I can do it I have nothing to fear. If he was really leaving, I wouldn't be able to stop him. But I ask - I think it, and he sees it in my eyes.

Running Again? No, I can't think anything more original. It sums it up nicely, and I like it, no matter how trite it's become.

He raises both eyebrows and rolls his eyes at me, but says nothing, and he doesn't need to. I'm the writer - it's my job to translate.

I've got my hands full, his eyes remind me, though whether he means my studies or figuring out the intricacies of this bunny, I don't know. Either way, we both got things to do, and when I'm ready for him, he'll be back.

When I'm finished thinking that, he smiles and disappears into the depth of the graduate library. Turning back to my books, I realize Psych & Law hasn't gotten any more interesting since I'd dropped my highlighter, but I attack it with new vigor, knowing what comes after.