[Egon immediately recognizes that voice and suddenly his quest to escape the grip of the woman wrapped around him becomes much more urgent. This time he's not concerned with waking her up as he gently loosens her grip and attempts to sit up.]
[Silently, Egon thanks the powers that be that Ilsa is indeed dressed or something really embarrassing might have occurred. He slides his legs out of bed and rubs his eyes before reaching for his glasses, vaguely noting that he's once again wearing the wedding band that he could have sworn he put in a drawer somewhere a couple months ago.]
I'm pretty sure this is our bed. At least, that's what Mayfield wants us to think.
[He stands and shuffles over to the dresser, picking up a photo in a tasteful frame and holding it out so she can see it. It shows the two of them, Egon in a tuxedo and Ilsa in a 50's-era wedding gown wrapped in each others' arms and looking as happy as can be.]
Good morning, Mrs. Spengler. [He says this in a tone that suggests that he's not all too happy or comfortable with these new developments.]
[Huh. Waking up alone. Not something that happens much, these days. Usually it's either empty Drone!Luka, or it's very involved Ilsa. Today the bed is just... empty. He reaches out in the lovely, lush dark of the basement room, and finds only chill sheets.]
Ilsa?
[Having found nothing, he gropes by the bedside table, and flicks on a light. He's the only one in the room... He slips out of bed, frowning slightly. Maybe she's decided to make a shared breakfast for them?]
Ilsa?
[He slips into proper clothing, determined to give her nothing to be embarrassed about. This may be her home, but it still runs by Mayfield rules, and the Not!Pyro droned husband is proprietary as hell. He wanders through the basement apartment, finger-combing his hair and drawing it back into its pony-tail as he starts up the stairs.]
[He's getting better at picking up backwash from her. Something is not right... which, given last night, worries him. He knows she's scared by her newly regained pheromones. Is she worried about work?]
[He slopes in from the basement, sets his briefcase by the kitchen door, settles his jacket and tie, pours himself a cup of coffee, then meets her eye, trying to radiate alpha-like firmness and love.]
What's wrong, liebchen? If it's work, I can set us up with a project that will keep me by you today: beat off any pushy folks who like your new perfume too much.
Peter Venkman's housedrspenglerNovember 13 2011, 02:22:23 UTC
[He had already left the house when he decided to head over to Venkman's place so there's no phone call to warn that he's coming. There's simply a knock on the door sometime around 9am that morning.]
[He opens the door, still in his bedclothes, only looking half-awake. It's his day off, and he's treating it as such. It's only until he sees Egon that he snaps out of it a little.]
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[ So, when Egon tries to untangle her, she murmurs sleepily, and snuggles into another position, which is still wrapped around him. ]
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Ilsa, wake up. We have a problem.
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[ That is not the voice of the one she was sleeping next to last night, so there's a little more impetus to wake up. ]
Eg'n? Watchu doin' in my...
[ She looks around, ]
... not my bed?
[ She looks down at herself, noting that she's wearing the Mayfield standard-issue wife nightgown. ]
At least they dress me when they do this to me.
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I'm pretty sure this is our bed. At least, that's what Mayfield wants us to think.
[He stands and shuffles over to the dresser, picking up a photo in a tasteful frame and holding it out so she can see it. It shows the two of them, Egon in a tuxedo and Ilsa in a 50's-era wedding gown wrapped in each others' arms and looking as happy as can be.]
Good morning, Mrs. Spengler. [He says this in a tone that suggests that he's not all too happy or comfortable with these new developments.]
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Ilsa?
[Having found nothing, he gropes by the bedside table, and flicks on a light. He's the only one in the room... He slips out of bed, frowning slightly. Maybe she's decided to make a shared breakfast for them?]
Ilsa?
[He slips into proper clothing, determined to give her nothing to be embarrassed about. This may be her home, but it still runs by Mayfield rules, and the Not!Pyro droned husband is proprietary as hell. He wanders through the basement apartment, finger-combing his hair and drawing it back into its pony-tail as he starts up the stairs.]
Ilsa? You up here?
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[ She sounds... muted. ]
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[He slopes in from the basement, sets his briefcase by the kitchen door, settles his jacket and tie, pours himself a cup of coffee, then meets her eye, trying to radiate alpha-like firmness and love.]
What's wrong, liebchen? If it's work, I can set us up with a project that will keep me by you today: beat off any pushy folks who like your new perfume too much.
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[ She straightens from putting the breakfast casserole in the oven, wearing the Mayfield-standard-issue nightgown and robe. ]
They issued a new husband, and decided I needed to be upstairs to greet him. He had the usual bad reaction to the way I sleep.
[ She turns to the basement door. ]
I'm getting dressed before the drones wake up.
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...you rang?
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Sorry if I woke you. Had a rough morning and I needed to get out of the house.
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Rough is putting it mildly.
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