Every Move You Make [RDJ] - IN PROGRESS

Two

A/N: Writing his attitude change in this is going to be so much fun...

Ever have one of those dreams that so fucking real, up wake up thinking it happened and then wind up thinking about it the rest of the day?

Unfortunately, that's this morning.

My dramatically over creative brain has apparently decided to fantasize over neighbor girl, which means I'm a wreck when I whine into my pillow and roll over under the blankets just as things start getting good in this so called dream.  Benefits of not getting laid in weeks, I guess.

With a loud, drawn out groan, I blindly stretch out my entire body across the mattress, then grab at the bedside table in hopes of searching out my personal phone.  My hand drops several times before finally bumping into it, and then I stupidly blind myself with the screen when I peek an eye open to unlock it.

I don't get notifications like most people; Jim's set it up to leave it on the press phone.  My personal tab only shows the verified accounts, anyway.  So it's pretty empty aside from some emails from PR pestering me about that wedding yesterday.  Apparently skipping an NA meeting to sing karaoke isn't quite the image they want for me, but who the fuck really knows what I was supposed to be doing outside of the people copied to my calendar?  Yeah, Jim tried to bitch at me to get my shit together, but Gordon insisted and I have no fucking house, so...

Kay, rant over.  Get your ass out of bed, Downey.

It's barely light outside. Seven thirty.  Wonderful.

I should shower.  I should take a very long, very chilly shower after that night's sleep, but as I rub my eyes and sit up, I can hear chords being strummed on a wooden guitar from outside my window.  The guest bedroom leans against the upper deck; sounds like he's up and active already.

After a quick piss in the bathroom, I grab a shirt from the dresser that I've set some shit in and run a hand through my hair to fuck with it enough to be semi presentable.  Not like I need to be, but who knows what kind of people might be out on the beach getting a glimpse of the balconies in the morning. 

My frustration of my rude awakening, though my own body and mind's fault for cutting in when it shouldn't have, comes through as I head outside, though.  The sliding door is a little easier to slide than anticipated, so I send it slamming against the wall a little too hard as I try to get it open.  Oops.

Welp, say something that doesn't make you out to be the miserable asshole you're actually being this morning...

"You sure you only have this creative spirit when normal people aren't awake?"

Yeah, that...wasn't it.

"This is a normal hour," Gordon jokes back, stopping his quiet vocals but still strumming along.

"Not for Americans," I mumble lowly, moving toward the edge of the deck to his side to observe the ocean.

It's closer than it usually it for me; from the hills, it's pretty, but you don't quite the same effect as being directly on it.  Thus why I like beach walks so much.

My forearms rest on the top of the glass walls to provide some sort of support, as I take it in - the sea breeze, the fresh air, the warmth of the rising sun...all wonderful perks of the west coast.

And then I'll be damned...as if I didn't have enough of a cock block this morning and the heavens are against me, there she is.  Doing yoga as if she isn't trying to mock my interests, hanging out on the neighbor's deck.