[They've closed up shop for the day and Newt is sitting at his desk reading over some notes one of his old colleagues has sent him on a paper he's writing, coffee mug in one gloved hand, the other rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He's not sure when he last got a decent nights sleep--decent for him anyway--and even though he knows he's not having a manic episode, he knows sleeping is going to be almost impossible. He's got too much to do, too much to catch up on for him to sleep. He can sleep when he's dead.
But the glare of the screen in the dim room is getting to him, and he has to wheel the chair away and nurse his coffee cup, looking to Kit as she finishes cleaning the examination bed from the last client. Not that they got many, but still. He considers her for a moment, and then picks up his phone to send his colleague a text to say he'll get to the paper corrections in the morning (there are many corrections, don't think there aren't) and slurps at his coffee again.]
Newt and Kit
But the glare of the screen in the dim room is getting to him, and he has to wheel the chair away and nurse his coffee cup, looking to Kit as she finishes cleaning the examination bed from the last client. Not that they got many, but still. He considers her for a moment, and then picks up his phone to send his colleague a text to say he'll get to the paper corrections in the morning (there are many corrections, don't think there aren't) and slurps at his coffee again.]
I always forget how good you are at that stuff.