Charles shrugs off the evening and dips under the doorway into his home in the barracks; a nice little place, a separate condominium merged only to the mess hall. Given its location, the air it holds will always carry gunsmoke, but that is something that might as well be a given regardless. It is not a normal means of settling down and that is precisely what brings him to adore it. "Robbie-robs," he begins down the hall, "Hey, robber like burglar ; I should call you burglar. Hambuglar? Shit, I want a burger." An annoyed groan pries its way out of Roberts' mouth like creaking machinery. His silhouette quickly shrivels into a lump under the blanket at the flicking on of a lightswitch; "Turn the fucking light off, Jesus fuck, two in the goddamn morning--" Sentence is cut off by a cannonball dive into the queen-sized mattress and 250 pounds rushing to his chest. "Get off of me. Matter of fact," Roberts suggests, "get offa me and turn the light off and then get in bed and let me sleep." pingas