"You think it's that bloody simple?" Rush snorts, short and contemptuous. It appears that rising swiftly has left him mildly orthostatic, and initiating rapid movement is significantly likely to end in disaster. "That waking by sheer force of will hasn't been attempted?" If such a thing were possible, he's certain he would have mastered it by now.

Dreams are far from his favored pastime.

He flaps a vague hand in her direction, then pushes it again through his hair in a motion that aborts itself partway, instead grinding the butt of his palm against the dull, stabbing ache pressed into his forehead. "By all means," he rasps in a much more pronounced display of exhaustion than intended, "be my guest."