Strictly Professional {Private}

It was not a good day. 

Booker hardly ever had good days per se, but this one was exceptionally horrible. 

He had been distracted all day, and it was affecting his performance during training. It did not help that he had developed a horrible cough, and he found himself struggling to catch his breath. After being dropped for the sixth time during a sparring match, his mentor instructed him to go home and rest. Booker insisted that he was fine, and just had some sort of winter cold bug, but he was still sent away. It was becoming harder and harder for him to focus on anything.

Arriving at home, he could only seethe in anger. It was entirely aimed at himself, and all he could think of was to pace or immediately resort to drugs. He staved off the craving for a while, going for a jog to clear his mind, as well as making a meal for himself. He used just before settling down after cleaning a bit, and when he heard a small yap at the door, it startled him.

"Oh, Hearth, it's just you..." he sighed with relief, gesturing for her to lay on his bed. The small coyote obeyed, curling into a little ball and snuggling her head under her tail. Booker retrieve a bone that he had found on his walk, and placed it next to her. "Just for you."

He settled in next to her on the bed, using his telekinesis to grab a book from the natural shelf in the wall of his cave. It was a novel that he read to his little sister often when they were young, but he had no read it in a while. It was a short book about a gang of rebel vagabonds that lived by robbing Aodhian caravans. It always intrigued Booker, and he often thought of running away to join them. He could never build up the courage to do so, or he felt responsible for his sibling or mother, and would stay.

He frowned slightly, sighing. This is what he was. Training, living off of memories, and drugs. If it weren't for the latter, he was not sure what would even keep him going. They kept down his anxiety and paranoia, and helped pass time. Glancing over at his stash, he rose and approached it.

"Just passing the time," he muttered, opening the pouch and pulling a few out. Then a few more. Then a couple more. How many had he taken? Not that many, another would be okay. Shit, how many had he taken? His heart raced, and he turned to look at himself in a mirror. When had the bags under his eyes gotten so dark? When had his ribs began to show? He shook his head, and the entire room spun, and suddenly he felt the floor beneath his knees. Maybe if he just lied down...

Hearth was barking, shoving him with her nose and whimpering. She paced frantically, occasionally pawing at him. The sensation of her dry pads against his coat felt weird, and sent a tingling up his entire body. 

"I- I'm alright, j- i- is," he stuttered, and he realized very quickly that he made a mistake. His body convulsed, and he vomited. "H- Hearth," he breathed, turning his heavy head to look at her. "Help... Jack." He blacked out just to see the small canid sprint out his door.

"..wake up!" 

The words were muffled, as if they were being spoken from beneath a blanket.

"Booker wake up."

He tried to open his eyes, but he just felt really tired. He tried to speak, but his words came out as nothing but a sharp breath and a small moan. Booker felt pressure against his back, and the sharp sounds of whining. He had to wake up and comfort Hearth, and let her know that he was fine. 

Well, he wasn't fine, but he was not about to let her know that.

"Sssfhhhhgh," Booker muttered, his mouth not even moving as the sound escaped.

Word Count | 678