Nipping or not, Lambert looks pretty pleased the crow has decided to play along, at least for the moment. He'll return the favor by reaching out to run a finger up along the ruffled feathers at the crow's neck as soon as he's done gulping the food, then smoothing the feathers down.
"There you go," he murmurs. In some way, it's lucky the bird isn't more frightened or distressed, or showing more visible signs of being out of his element than he has. If he was (and Lambert doesn't even know if it's a boy or a girl at this point -- would it be a reasonable assumption to make on size? The internet tells him no, not really, so he's going to just have to put it aside) he'd be treating it differently, but its quiet nature is a change of pace from the hectic whirlwind of this househould, and it's not ... bad. It'd be great if this dingy bird turned out to be a hot babe, possibly even worth the trouble he went through just bringing it here, but with his luck the odds of that are vanishingly small.
For the most part, over the next few days, he'll let it recover in peace, keeping him in his room and checking on how his injuries and his makeshift splint are holding up in the mornings and evenings. Better food eventually comes in the form of spaghetti (with only a little sauce, because apparently salt is bad for birds) and pizza (when Lambert brings up his own dinner so he can work quietly at his desk, fingers flying on the keyboard) though the fruit remains. As long as the crow isn't making noise, it seems it's surprisingly easy for Lambert to forget it's even there, though he'll shuffle the box absently between the bed and the table and the floor depending on what space he needs.
Lambert's routine is a simple one. He gets up early, gets showered, and depending on the day he's either off to the library, off to the cafe, or off to meet his thesis adviser. The last seems to be a particular source of stress for him, days when he comes back muttering under his breath and giving up on modesty as he slams around his room to pull on clean clothes before collapsing into bed to sleep like hte dead. At least for the first week, he'll keep the door closed and won't let him out into the apartment proper; the bird will hear voices beyond it, both female, and the excited yapping of dogs. As the crow regains strength, eventually it's going to get set on the desk next to the laptop, the keyboard poised under its beak and a blank document on the screen.
"I'm Lambert. Sorry, I never properly introduced myself." Though the bird has likely figured out as much from just being around here, so he doesn't sound that sorry at all. "Who are you?" God, he hopes its literate.
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"There you go," he murmurs. In some way, it's lucky the bird isn't more frightened or distressed, or showing more visible signs of being out of his element than he has. If he was (and Lambert doesn't even know if it's a boy or a girl at this point -- would it be a reasonable assumption to make on size? The internet tells him no, not really, so he's going to just have to put it aside) he'd be treating it differently, but its quiet nature is a change of pace from the hectic whirlwind of this househould, and it's not ... bad. It'd be great if this dingy bird turned out to be a hot babe, possibly even worth the trouble he went through just bringing it here, but with his luck the odds of that are vanishingly small.
For the most part, over the next few days, he'll let it recover in peace, keeping him in his room and checking on how his injuries and his makeshift splint are holding up in the mornings and evenings. Better food eventually comes in the form of spaghetti (with only a little sauce, because apparently salt is bad for birds) and pizza (when Lambert brings up his own dinner so he can work quietly at his desk, fingers flying on the keyboard) though the fruit remains. As long as the crow isn't making noise, it seems it's surprisingly easy for Lambert to forget it's even there, though he'll shuffle the box absently between the bed and the table and the floor depending on what space he needs.
Lambert's routine is a simple one. He gets up early, gets showered, and depending on the day he's either off to the library, off to the cafe, or off to meet his thesis adviser. The last seems to be a particular source of stress for him, days when he comes back muttering under his breath and giving up on modesty as he slams around his room to pull on clean clothes before collapsing into bed to sleep like hte dead. At least for the first week, he'll keep the door closed and won't let him out into the apartment proper; the bird will hear voices beyond it, both female, and the excited yapping of dogs. As the crow regains strength, eventually it's going to get set on the desk next to the laptop, the keyboard poised under its beak and a blank document on the screen.
"I'm Lambert. Sorry, I never properly introduced myself." Though the bird has likely figured out as much from just being around here, so he doesn't sound that sorry at all. "Who are you?" God, he hopes its literate.