thismaskiwear | Room 505, Monday Late Morning

This was the first time since she'd gotten back from the trip, barring a furtive minute or two to drop off her bags, that Katchoo had set foot in her own damn room out of a notion that Francine needed some space after the whole kissing-and-then-freaking-out-and-fleeing incident from Saturday night. Francine always needed space after those incidents, and it made Katchoo want to beat her head into the wall a little that there had been enough incidents for her to see a pattern.

There was a certain farcical element to this, if you were far enough removed from the situation to see it from that angle, but at point-blank face-smooshed-up-against-the-problem range Katchoo was really only inclined to be frustrated, hurt, and pretty damned worn out from it all. Too damned worn out to keep giving space, actually, which didn't mean she wasn't relieved that the room was empty when she walked in and dropped to sit on the edge of her bed.

Clocky wheeled out from under her desk with a scolding beep-whir.

"Yeah. Missed you too," she told the clock, reaching down to give it a grudging pat.

[OOC: For that girl who also lives here and constantly has these Incidents with her. Look, don't blame us, blame the Cartoonist. HE IS WAY WORSE.]

That relief was destined to be short-lived, which anybody far enough removed to see the farcical element would know.

They'd also know that Francine was destined to be returning from the shower after a lazy morning of... waiting for Katchoo to stop needing space and come back to the room.

In a robe, not a towel, because our Cartoonist is nicer. Sometimes.

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