Solitary (ficlet)
Solitary
Rating: PG
Words: 751
Summary: Sam is introduced to someone who could be an ally, a threat, or both. Total ignorance of upcoming season 2 practiced.
Author’s Note: This is a kind of lame thing to do, but since no one's posted in a while, I'm here to contribute the opening of a fic I will probably never finish or -- being honest -- continue for quite some time.
Warning: Not for readers who need closure.
"Sam Oliver, right?" Sam's head jerks up from the inventory clipboard in surprise, to meet a cheerfully smiling face and an outstretched hand. "I asked over at customer service and they said to look for a short-brown-haired guy in an apron." Sam frowns warily, tucking his pen into his pocket as he looks over the young woman in the dusty raincoat. She doesn’t look much different than the usual college-age 'do-it-yourselfers' the Workbench gets, with her brown hair pulled back and her wire-frame glasses slightly askew on her face.
"That description fits a lot of guys here." He points out, cautiously taking her hand.
"Oh, I know!" She replies enthusiastically as she shakes his hand, "You're like, the third guy I've asked." She cranes her head, looking around demonstratively. "This place is huge! I don't even remember which way I came in."
Sam lets go of her hand, his brow still furrowed. "So, is there something I can, uh, help you with?"
She blinks back at him, slightly surprised, before tilting her head and grinning. "Oh no! That's not it at all. I'm here to help you."
"You... Are?"
"Yep!" She produces a carefully folded and sealed piece of paper from somewhere in her jacket and holds it up for Sam, the twisted wax snakes of the red seal staring him back in the face. "My name's J.R. Thompkinson." She says merrily as Sam takes the letter like he’s afraid it’s going to bite him. "I've been hired to do a week-long consultation with you." The paper is crisp, pure white, and just heavy enough to communicate wealth even apart from the elaborate red wax seal. “My letter of introduction,” J.R. explains cheerfully, “or, I guess maybe a letter of reference.” The smile takes on a slightly rueful edge, “I didn’t have the guts to try and steam off the seal to check.”
“From who?” Sam asks, feeling like the air’s been sucked from his lungs.
J.R. just shrugs carelessly in response. “’A mutual friend’ is the best answer I’ve got for you. The client confidentiality in this matter is a little dodgy, y’know? Policy means that the person who hired me calls the shots, but I was hired to work for, or I guess with, you… But it doesn’t really matter, right?” Her idly thoughtful expression breaks back into a smile, “I’m guessing you already know, so no big deal.” Sam slides his thumb under the seal, and it snaps in half, the folded letter opening almost of its own accord. “What’s it say?” J.R. asks eagerly, then looks put out when Sam shakes his head, though it’s more because he doesn’t know what to make of it than that he really doesn’t want her to know.
‘Sammy,’ The letter reads in a elegant calligraphy, ‘thought that maybe you could make some use of your downtime, so I found you a tutor.’ There’s no signature, but there doesn’t need to be. J.R.’s right, and he already knows who’s hired her.
“Look,” Sam begins tiredly, “you seem nice and all, but I don’t think this is going to work.” J.R. tilts her head to the side like a bird, not looking particularly worried.
“Why not?” She asks casually, and Sam hands her back the letter.
“My, uh, other boss,” Sam gestures at his apron when he says other, “hired you, but I’m just trying to take some time now to…” He trails off, not sure how to summarize ‘the Devil gave me time off to mourn my father who was murdered by demons’ but looses the train of thought entirely when J.R. smiles brightly, almost victoriously, like the last bit of some puzzle just slid into place for her.
“That’s totally okay, don’t worry about it.” She cheerfully hands back the note from the Devil, “I get it.” Sam is a little unsettled by the feeling that she does get it, while not knowing what ‘it’ is. “I was contracted out for the week, so I’ll be hanging around anyway, but I get it.” J.R. pulls out her wallet and rummages through some scraps of paper before happily producing a worn-looking business card. “Just give me a call if you want anything; otherwise I’ll just be killing time around town.”
Sam stares at the business card, the tasteful dark green ink and off-white paper looking worse for wear, but still confidently composed. ‘Thompkinson Consulting’, the card declares, underneath a tiny drawing of a compass, ‘The most trusted name in paranormal consulting’.
“Contact info’s on the back!” J.R. calls to him, and Sam’s head jerks up in surprise, just catching her parting wave as she leaves the aisle.
“Yeah… Thanks.” He mutters to no one in particular, stuffing the card into his pocket.
Rating: PG
Words: 751
Summary: Sam is introduced to someone who could be an ally, a threat, or both. Total ignorance of upcoming season 2 practiced.
Author’s Note: This is a kind of lame thing to do, but since no one's posted in a while, I'm here to contribute the opening of a fic I will probably never finish or -- being honest -- continue for quite some time.
Warning: Not for readers who need closure.
"Sam Oliver, right?" Sam's head jerks up from the inventory clipboard in surprise, to meet a cheerfully smiling face and an outstretched hand. "I asked over at customer service and they said to look for a short-brown-haired guy in an apron." Sam frowns warily, tucking his pen into his pocket as he looks over the young woman in the dusty raincoat. She doesn’t look much different than the usual college-age 'do-it-yourselfers' the Workbench gets, with her brown hair pulled back and her wire-frame glasses slightly askew on her face.
"That description fits a lot of guys here." He points out, cautiously taking her hand.
"Oh, I know!" She replies enthusiastically as she shakes his hand, "You're like, the third guy I've asked." She cranes her head, looking around demonstratively. "This place is huge! I don't even remember which way I came in."
Sam lets go of her hand, his brow still furrowed. "So, is there something I can, uh, help you with?"
She blinks back at him, slightly surprised, before tilting her head and grinning. "Oh no! That's not it at all. I'm here to help you."
"You... Are?"
"Yep!" She produces a carefully folded and sealed piece of paper from somewhere in her jacket and holds it up for Sam, the twisted wax snakes of the red seal staring him back in the face. "My name's J.R. Thompkinson." She says merrily as Sam takes the letter like he’s afraid it’s going to bite him. "I've been hired to do a week-long consultation with you." The paper is crisp, pure white, and just heavy enough to communicate wealth even apart from the elaborate red wax seal. “My letter of introduction,” J.R. explains cheerfully, “or, I guess maybe a letter of reference.” The smile takes on a slightly rueful edge, “I didn’t have the guts to try and steam off the seal to check.”
“From who?” Sam asks, feeling like the air’s been sucked from his lungs.
J.R. just shrugs carelessly in response. “’A mutual friend’ is the best answer I’ve got for you. The client confidentiality in this matter is a little dodgy, y’know? Policy means that the person who hired me calls the shots, but I was hired to work for, or I guess with, you… But it doesn’t really matter, right?” Her idly thoughtful expression breaks back into a smile, “I’m guessing you already know, so no big deal.” Sam slides his thumb under the seal, and it snaps in half, the folded letter opening almost of its own accord. “What’s it say?” J.R. asks eagerly, then looks put out when Sam shakes his head, though it’s more because he doesn’t know what to make of it than that he really doesn’t want her to know.
‘Sammy,’ The letter reads in a elegant calligraphy, ‘thought that maybe you could make some use of your downtime, so I found you a tutor.’ There’s no signature, but there doesn’t need to be. J.R.’s right, and he already knows who’s hired her.
“Look,” Sam begins tiredly, “you seem nice and all, but I don’t think this is going to work.” J.R. tilts her head to the side like a bird, not looking particularly worried.
“Why not?” She asks casually, and Sam hands her back the letter.
“My, uh, other boss,” Sam gestures at his apron when he says other, “hired you, but I’m just trying to take some time now to…” He trails off, not sure how to summarize ‘the Devil gave me time off to mourn my father who was murdered by demons’ but looses the train of thought entirely when J.R. smiles brightly, almost victoriously, like the last bit of some puzzle just slid into place for her.
“That’s totally okay, don’t worry about it.” She cheerfully hands back the note from the Devil, “I get it.” Sam is a little unsettled by the feeling that she does get it, while not knowing what ‘it’ is. “I was contracted out for the week, so I’ll be hanging around anyway, but I get it.” J.R. pulls out her wallet and rummages through some scraps of paper before happily producing a worn-looking business card. “Just give me a call if you want anything; otherwise I’ll just be killing time around town.”
Sam stares at the business card, the tasteful dark green ink and off-white paper looking worse for wear, but still confidently composed. ‘Thompkinson Consulting’, the card declares, underneath a tiny drawing of a compass, ‘The most trusted name in paranormal consulting’.
“Contact info’s on the back!” J.R. calls to him, and Sam’s head jerks up in surprise, just catching her parting wave as she leaves the aisle.
“Yeah… Thanks.” He mutters to no one in particular, stuffing the card into his pocket.