Author's Note: This is a sequel to my story "The Weekend" and while it isn't absolutely necessary to read that story for this one to make sense, it certainly helps.
This story has been a long time in coming; the RW kept getting in the way.
So, without further ado, "Home Is Where..."
What do you pack?
He looked around his bedroom, their bedroom and contemplated all the stuff. His stuff. Her stuff. Their stuff. He didn't quite know where to begin. But he had to start. He was leaving for good in a couple of days and he needed to be packed and ready before the moving van arrived.
He sighed. Clothes. He would need his clothes. He moved over to his dresser and started emptying the drawers on to the bed. Stacks of underwear and socks. Tee-shirts, shorts and polo shirts. He turned to his half of the closet, laying out his dress shirts, suits and ties. He saw the dry cleaning bag on the floor of the closet and looked in. A couple of suits and shirts that needed to go to the cleaners. He'd need to make sure to drop them off in the morning so that they'd be ready before he left. And he needed to remember to pick up what was already there so he could pack those clothes as well.
He flopped on the opposite side of the bed, looking at the piles of clothes he'd laid out. When did he become such a clothes horse? Back in his Fugitive Recovery days, he only needed a couple of pairs of jeans, a couple of shirts and some socks and underwear. And now… All this? He sat up and groaned. It would all need to be packed. And he didn't think he even owned enough suitcases to put it all in.
He got up from the bed. He'd figure out his clothes. He went out to the living room, surveying the space. His eyes fell on his CD collection. That he could pack. His music was completely separate from Kim's. He grabbed two boxes and sat down on the floor in front of his collection and carefully, in reverse order, set each disc in the box. Once he finished that task, relieved that at least something was done, he moved to his books. He carefully sorted through the titles, keeping some to take to the house with him with others packed to go in to storage.
He leaned back against the couch, shut his eyes and exhaled. He didn't know how he was going to make it work. There was no way that even his pared down stuff was going to fit in to the Craftsman, in to his childhood room. He was going to need to pare it down even more.
He ran his fingers through his hair and looked around again.
What did you pack when you were moving home again?
What the hell did you pack?