Post by thomaswoods on Mar 22, 2010 14:34:06 GMT -5
Despite all appearances, Thomas Woods really was trying to do his paperwork. The stuff just seemed to mount up to worrying levels, especially if he left it for a while. He seemed to have this delusion that it would all burn up, and he wouldn't have to do any of it. Plus, the team were no longer the keen, eager-to-please newbies they'd once been. None of them were willing to fill out forms in the hope of favour any more. They all just avoided him until it was done.
That was why he was sitting alone in his office. The chair was side-on to the door, because facing it head on made him uncomfortable, and exposing his back was stupid. His computer man assured him what they dealt with was state-of-the-art, but as Tom pointed out, some planets were a little more ahead. As in, proper space travel ahead. So, forgive him if, as the head of Torchwood, he was a little paranoid. Today though, he was relaxing. Both feet were slung haphazardly onto his desk, and he was slowly sliding further and further down into the chair. He wore black combat boots, jeans and a loose white shirt. His coat was...somewhere. He wasn't the most organised of people. He had a sneaking suspicion that his trench coat was on the back of his chair, but if he was brutally honest with himself, it really could be anywhere.
One of his hands was curled possessively around a mug of tea, and the other was holding up a sheaf of papers for his inspection. There was a possibility that he'd spill the drink all over the papers, but Tom wouldn't sacrifice his tea for anything. He took it milky and sweet, almost sickeningly so. His darling second-in-command wasn't fond of tea at all, and he couldn't for the life of him work out why. He lifted the mug to his lips and was about to take a sip when the door banged open. He started violently, and the mug jerked in his grip. Drops of tea splattered onto the floor, missing him by millimetres. He growled audibly. His tea!
"Knock, why don't you!" he snapped, leaning forward to set the mug carefully on his desk, beside a multitude of rings that mugs had left on the wood over the years.
That was why he was sitting alone in his office. The chair was side-on to the door, because facing it head on made him uncomfortable, and exposing his back was stupid. His computer man assured him what they dealt with was state-of-the-art, but as Tom pointed out, some planets were a little more ahead. As in, proper space travel ahead. So, forgive him if, as the head of Torchwood, he was a little paranoid. Today though, he was relaxing. Both feet were slung haphazardly onto his desk, and he was slowly sliding further and further down into the chair. He wore black combat boots, jeans and a loose white shirt. His coat was...somewhere. He wasn't the most organised of people. He had a sneaking suspicion that his trench coat was on the back of his chair, but if he was brutally honest with himself, it really could be anywhere.
One of his hands was curled possessively around a mug of tea, and the other was holding up a sheaf of papers for his inspection. There was a possibility that he'd spill the drink all over the papers, but Tom wouldn't sacrifice his tea for anything. He took it milky and sweet, almost sickeningly so. His darling second-in-command wasn't fond of tea at all, and he couldn't for the life of him work out why. He lifted the mug to his lips and was about to take a sip when the door banged open. He started violently, and the mug jerked in his grip. Drops of tea splattered onto the floor, missing him by millimetres. He growled audibly. His tea!
"Knock, why don't you!" he snapped, leaning forward to set the mug carefully on his desk, beside a multitude of rings that mugs had left on the wood over the years.