Cesar stays on the couch, apparently dead to the world. The blinds are closed, the cushions are actually quite comfortable, and he could probably sleep the rest of the day away, if he tried.

This is, of course, when the smoke detector goes off. The alarm is piercing, and it feels as though someone's driving a twin pair of nails straight into his skull. Cesar comes awake with a silent cry, a groggy flinch, and a brief attempt to smother himself on the nearest cushion. (No success.)

Wait. That's the fire alarm. There's several scents clinging to him right now, but he can smell smoke on top of it all, and he rolls onto his feet with the grace of an extremely hungover crocodile. The kitchen isn't far.

It's too bright in there. His eyes narrow to tired slits, and his hands are over his ears, unsuccessfully trying to blot out the misery. Someone else is in there, and they're already trying to get at the alarm, but Cesar can probably do it faster.

He turns off the stove, leaves the kitchen, and comes back with a chair.