~ thirty-sixth fairy tale
[backdated to yesterday morning, derp, what is "having a social life for 500, Alex"]
[Amy knows something's up the moment she yawns and stretches awake--she's very used to what her own bedding feels like by now, thank you very much, and she is not sleeping amongst her own bedding. It feels too... plush. And made of satin. And possibly velvet mixed in somewhere. Who *actually* sleeps on satin sheets?
She blinks her eyes open, and discovers that she and Rory (because yes, she knows what her own husband sleeping beside her feels like too) appear to be in... some sort of studio apartment. Top floor, too, because there are eaves. And it all looks very... decadent, in an old-world, Moulin Rouge sort of style. But it's definitely a modern apartment, because she can see the kitchenette over in a corner and it's got a four-ring stove and minifridge.
There's an answering machine on her bedside table, and the light is blinking on it. As warily as one can while still half-asleep, Amy pushes the button. A heavily-accented, lifetime-smoking woman's voice trills out of it]
"Cheriiiiiiiie, Monsieur Barnard has booked you for nine o'clock tomorrow night. He wants the usual. Good morning!
[*Click*. Amy stares. What the hell does that mean? And why are they in France?]
[Amy knows something's up the moment she yawns and stretches awake--she's very used to what her own bedding feels like by now, thank you very much, and she is not sleeping amongst her own bedding. It feels too... plush. And made of satin. And possibly velvet mixed in somewhere. Who *actually* sleeps on satin sheets?
She blinks her eyes open, and discovers that she and Rory (because yes, she knows what her own husband sleeping beside her feels like too) appear to be in... some sort of studio apartment. Top floor, too, because there are eaves. And it all looks very... decadent, in an old-world, Moulin Rouge sort of style. But it's definitely a modern apartment, because she can see the kitchenette over in a corner and it's got a four-ring stove and minifridge.
There's an answering machine on her bedside table, and the light is blinking on it. As warily as one can while still half-asleep, Amy pushes the button. A heavily-accented, lifetime-smoking woman's voice trills out of it]
"Cheriiiiiiiie, Monsieur Barnard has booked you for nine o'clock tomorrow night. He wants the usual. Good morning!
[*Click*. Amy stares. What the hell does that mean? And why are they in France?]