It should be said that there is never actually a quiet day in Chicago. Ever. Somewhere, always, something is happening, and invariably that something has to do with explosives. It is Chicago, after all.
But there are a lot of people in Chicago, and so specific people can have quiet days. Take Michael Vaughn for instance, currently out and about
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But now that she's walking down the street alone, on her way back to the Conrad, there doesn't seem to be much point in the pretend-smile. She walks along, hands jammed in her pockets, feeling the weight of her despair on her shoulders once more.
She glances up every so often to make sure she won't run into anyone; on one of her upturns she notices the lady walking along with an empty wagon in tow. She's smiling, apparently oblivious to everything else besides the beauty of the day, or maybe it's the city. Something.
Rachel's a bit envious, but somehow the "carefree" that seems to be radiating from this woman musters a bit of a smile out of her, one that she's still wearing as she starts to pass her, going the other direction.
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Just in time to see an outstretched arm brandishing a plastic bag.
Rachel stops short so she doesn't get bodychecked by it, and she takes it, peering at the contents in complete puzzlement.
"They're, uh. Cookies?" Rachel looks up and blinks as politely as she can manage. Not because she wants to be rude, but, because, really, how does one blink at someone in utter confusion and still be polite? She's not sure how.
"What're... these for?"
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Of course, he recognizes the girl sitting outside almost immediately. This makes him hunch a little bit further into his jacket and attempt to get into the coffeeshop before she notices he's there. This may or may not work, but he can hope, right?
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"Aaron!" she shouts to him. "Grab a seat, I'll get you a coffee!" Because the term 'drinking buddy' does not limit itself to alcohol.
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"It's raining," he says. Clearly she cannot expect him bear both her company and rain. He might not mind the rain if this was someone he particularly wanted to have a conversation with and he hadn't come to the cafe specifically to sketch. Sketching in the rain doesn't work out so well.
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She loves the rain, if you couldn't tell. It has something to do with the fact that she's also terrified of fire, but there's something so calming about the rain.
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The unfortunate thing about living in a world that is not your own is that sometimes, you completely forget about certain things back home. In Dan's case, he hasn't thought about his mother in quite a few weeks - this is a good thing, really.
Except now he finds himself staring at a woman who looks exactly like his mom, save for one little difference: Eloise Hawking, as far as Dan knows, has never worn an expression like that. Still, he's staring right at her, looking quite bewildered.
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Still, she's not blind. She can see the nice-looking young man staring at her, and she's not exactly comfortable with being stared at. So she stops with her wagon and gives him a bit of a confused look.
"Can I help you?" she asks.
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He swallows, shaking his head.
"No, I just - you - uh."
Words, Daniel. You can use them if you try!
"Sorry. You just look a lot like... someone I knew."
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"Would you like one?" she asks Daniel, holding it out to him.
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He's been having a good day so far, and the day just gets even better when he spots a familiar face sitting on the edge of the pier. He strolls up behind her, smiling brightly and digging a tissue out of his pocket, which he offers to Scout.
"Scoutbird, it's been too long. You've been taking care of yourself, I hope?" He raises an eyebrow at the dribbly nose.
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"Devdev my dear," she says. "Take care, take care, take care of the ones you know." She's more than a little out of it today. Yay for a lack of coherency?
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"Boo!"
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"Jesusfuck what the hell?" she spits out before seeing who it is. And then she relaxes. "Oh. You!" Her face breaks out into a grin, a real grin. "Come here, you," she says, opening her arms wide.
She intends to hug him. She's missed her little fellow-homeless-person-buddy-guy-old-pal. Or something.
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"Me," he agrees with a cheerful noise, and then launches himself into her arms wrapping his own limbs around her neck.
Jamal likes hugs. He doesn't get them often, but they are nice.
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"What are you doing here?" she asks. "Are those hot dogs?" she grins. "You haven't been stealing again, have you?"
Not that she particularly cares one way or another. It's the way she makes her living, after all, if you can call it a living.
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