[For the past week or so Fiddleford has been conspicuously quiet. He hasn't opened the workshop. He hasn't cooked. He hasn't even left his box to bathe, despite the hot water being one of the best things for him as the temperature cools. He binged on a couple of unlucky humans immediately post-concert and once he settled in to digest he just sort of never got back up. Part of it's his natural snaky instinct to hibernate this time of year. Most of it was the music deadening the self-motivation that would usually keep him from doing that.
It takes him a while to come up out of it and it's with the unsettling feeling of having lost time. He hasn't felt that in a long while and he doesn't much like it. He knows he hasn't -- it's more a case of days and nights blending together as he snoozed through them-- but the effect is the same.
He's not angry. If he was angry Marco would know it. He's just... upset. Disappointed, more than anything. So instead of bursting into the master bedroom guns blazing he just knocks softly on the doorframe before letting himself in.]
backflips in. immediately post-firewall
It takes him a while to come up out of it and it's with the unsettling feeling of having lost time. He hasn't felt that in a long while and he doesn't much like it. He knows he hasn't -- it's more a case of days and nights blending together as he snoozed through them-- but the effect is the same.
He's not angry. If he was angry Marco would know it. He's just... upset. Disappointed, more than anything. So instead of bursting into the master bedroom guns blazing he just knocks softly on the doorframe before letting himself in.]
Marco? I think we oughta talk.