[OOM and not: First there's escapism, then there's practicality, and then there's the screaming nosedive into the freakishly bizarre. All in all it's a day like any other, except for how it royally sucks. At least his imaginary girlfriend is pretty kickass. Some days that's all you get.]

Brunette, black dress, red wine, slightly out-of-the-way table.

She's watching comings and goings with no small amount of interest, through brown eyes.

[OOM: Millitimed to directly after this. Even if you know how to look, it doesn't mean you'll find anything.]

" -- sure you haven't heard from him, Ellen? Yeah. Okay. No, that's all right. Just -- yeah. From your mouth to God's ear. Smack him one for me if he shows, okay? Nah, I already hit him up, but if you could -- yeah. Thanks ( Read more... )

Angela skims over the explanation of Cubefall, and then looks at the "reconfigurations" she's been offered.

She can't say that she's ever really wanted to be a robot, or a puppy, but the last looks . . . well, how does anyone say no to that?

Besides, she's always wondered if blondes really do have more fun . . .

Angela's last three weeks can be summed up end an engagement, spend some time down home at Dad's, battle Memorial Day Weekend traffic back to DC, and then arrive back at an apartment you haven't ever planned to use as a primary residence again. It had been a handy place to crash when they'd worked so late that the drive out to Hodgins' place ( Read more... )

It's been a long day. A really long, really fucked-up day. Goddamn shapeshifters. Goddamn Ronald.

Goddamn motherfucking FBI agents who can't let anything goDean storms through the front door of Milliways, Sam hot on his heels. Unlike most other days, both of 'em are dressed in unrelieved black. There's lots of Kevlar involved, too ( Read more... )

Habits are funny things. Take, for example, accents. It took Angela the better part of her first two years of college and a lot of work to lose hers, and right around the forty-eighth hour she spends at home, back it comes. The g's go vanishin' off the end of verbs, y'all goes back into into rotation, and there are suddenly a lot fewer one ( Read more... )

[OOM: As the poet (or possibly a country singer) said, Home is where, when you have to go there, someone will ask if your ex-fiance needs killin'.]

[OOM: Sometimes there's only one thing left to do. Would someone please tell the fat lady she's on next?]