"Sirius?"
A hand snakes out from under the duvet, pausing a moment as it reaches the bedside table to give itself time to reorient itself. Alarm clock, no. A candy wrapper, no dice. It comes across the base of the lamp, score.
It takes Sirius at least a second to assess the situation, and, always the quick thinker, it's soon obvious he's not going to be able to reach the hated bronze switch from his position. Remus is almost positive he hears a smothered 'git' from under the covers. He shrugs to himself – he'll get over it.
"Ah-" Sirius's grunt is cut off (to the extent by which a grunt /b be cut off – they're quite short, if you haven't noticed) by the unpleasantness of the lamp in such close proxomity to his face. "Un?"
Sirius Black is adamant in his belief (despite what others may think, and not without good reason) that he can tell what others feel vis a vis their eyes – and right about now, he's damn glad for that ability, because all he can see of his friend is his eyes, his eye above the book propped upon his knees.
There must be some interference today, he rationalizes, because he sees nothing. "Whatsit, Remus?"
Still, nothing.
"...nevermind. It's nothing." His eyes return to the book.
"'Night then.' There is no groping aimlessly, this time about. His hand finds the switch without any hardship.
A hand snakes out from under the duvet, pausing a moment as it reaches the bedside table to give itself time to reorient itself. Alarm clock, no. A candy wrapper, no dice. It comes across the base of the lamp, score.
It takes Sirius at least a second to assess the situation, and, always the quick thinker, it's soon obvious he's not going to be able to reach the hated bronze switch from his position. Remus is almost positive he hears a smothered 'git' from under the covers. He shrugs to himself – he'll get over it.
"Ah-" Sirius's grunt is cut off (to the extent by which a grunt /b be cut off – they're quite short, if you haven't noticed) by the unpleasantness of the lamp in such close proxomity to his face. "Un?"
Sirius Black is adamant in his belief (despite what others may think, and not without good reason) that he can tell what others feel vis a vis their eyes – and right about now, he's damn glad for that ability, because all he can see of his friend is his eyes, his eye above the book propped upon his knees.
There must be some interference today, he rationalizes, because he sees nothing. "Whatsit, Remus?"
Still, nothing.
"...nevermind. It's nothing." His eyes return to the book.
"'Night then.' There is no groping aimlessly, this time about. His hand finds the switch without any hardship.
