[This is not a surprise. At least not to Fugo. Bucciarati has never been someone who has coped well with idleness; it's a personality trait they share, the backbone of their ability to accomplish whatever task Polpo set in front of them. Not that there is a them anymore. Not after Venice. Fugo has not approached Bucciarati about it because, both despite and because of their history, he simply has no right to.
Still. He has eyes. Even at the careful distance Fugo keeps from him, never actively hiding from or avoiding him in the house but never getting close either, it's obvious. At least it is to him. His appearance is never anything less than perfect-- but at night, when he should be sleeping, Bucciarati paces the halls of the house in the hill like a trapped animal. Fugo knows this because he, too, has been filling the night hours with any number of pointless jobs rather than sleeping.
Tonight's task started off simply enough: he wanted to dust the bookshelves in the lower sitting area. Except then, when confronted with the reality of how disorganized the house's collection of books was, he couldn't just leave it at that. Fugo doesn't want to pull everything down without discussing the matter with one of the actual owners of the house, but still. Something has to be done about it. So he's beginning with an inventory of the books, so he can come up with a system he can present to the others.
Thanks to his secondary eyes, which first sense the movement of someone else in the room and eventually recognize the blurry figure as Bucciarati, Fugo isn't surprised by Bucciarati's approach. Even so, his ears burn with embarrassment to be caught preoccupied, unable to walk away, by something so foolish.]
... I've been trying to cut back on my caffeine at night. [There is no placard in the kitchen openly forbidding Fugo from afternoon and evening espressos. Still. As tempting as the coffee smells, he knows better. It's bad enough that he's still working this late and the coffee will only make it worse. Fugo awkwardly closes the notebook he was using to create his inventory and caps his pen, idly tapping it against the cover.] But I can have a glass of water with you.
just like canon... wipes a tear from my eye
[This is not a surprise. At least not to Fugo. Bucciarati has never been someone who has coped well with idleness; it's a personality trait they share, the backbone of their ability to accomplish whatever task Polpo set in front of them. Not that there is a them anymore. Not after Venice. Fugo has not approached Bucciarati about it because, both despite and because of their history, he simply has no right to.
Still. He has eyes. Even at the careful distance Fugo keeps from him, never actively hiding from or avoiding him in the house but never getting close either, it's obvious. At least it is to him. His appearance is never anything less than perfect-- but at night, when he should be sleeping, Bucciarati paces the halls of the house in the hill like a trapped animal. Fugo knows this because he, too, has been filling the night hours with any number of pointless jobs rather than sleeping.
Tonight's task started off simply enough: he wanted to dust the bookshelves in the lower sitting area. Except then, when confronted with the reality of how disorganized the house's collection of books was, he couldn't just leave it at that. Fugo doesn't want to pull everything down without discussing the matter with one of the actual owners of the house, but still. Something has to be done about it. So he's beginning with an inventory of the books, so he can come up with a system he can present to the others.
Thanks to his secondary eyes, which first sense the movement of someone else in the room and eventually recognize the blurry figure as Bucciarati, Fugo isn't surprised by Bucciarati's approach. Even so, his ears burn with embarrassment to be caught preoccupied, unable to walk away, by something so foolish.]
... I've been trying to cut back on my caffeine at night. [There is no placard in the kitchen openly forbidding Fugo from afternoon and evening espressos. Still. As tempting as the coffee smells, he knows better. It's bad enough that he's still working this late and the coffee will only make it worse. Fugo awkwardly closes the notebook he was using to create his inventory and caps his pen, idly tapping it against the cover.] But I can have a glass of water with you.