The reception for seniors at the president’s house was a quasi-dress up affair. For Parker that equals a cotton spring dress and sandals. Which, unfortunately, don’t provide much protection when (distracted by reading her program from the reception) Parker stubs her toes on a chair that someone left pulled out from a table.
What follows is some less than graceful hopping and crackling blue air.
"Yeah, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say waitin' for the pain to die down's probably a better idea. I mean, once you stick the peg on, it ain't like you can go back."
It's not that he's thought about it or anything (not even when he was ten, shut up).
"Quite well. May I join you? Those onion rings do look rather tasty."
She really can't help but grin around him, Dean does know how to do happy better than many people. Some day, she really must introduce him to Tom, somehow.
Because Aphrodite is, upon occasion-- dare we say it-- a busty Asian beauty, that is more or less the form regarding Dean from a little ways down the Bar.
She smiles.
Milliways never disappoints on the 'cute boy' front.
Liz has taken over an entire table, in what was probably once an example of organized chaos but has become an explosion of file folders, notepads, yellowed photographs, sheets of paper produced by both computers and typewriters, and Polaroids, all topped by a plate containing the remains of a salad, a glass of water, a digital camera, and the nondescript evidence box (stamped with the BPRD logo) that all of this ephemera came out of.
She's sitting with her feet tucked neatly under her chair, her elbow on the table, and her forehead in her hand. She's turning a blank, irritated stare on the nearest piece of evidence, which happens to be the infrared photo of a hallway (with a strange blurred figure in the foreground) that is resting on the table under her arm.
Her BPRD stab vest has been thrown across the back of an empty chair at the table. She is still, however, wearing combat boots and her gun.
Liz blinks, then glances up. At the sight of Dean Winchester, she smiles faintly despite herself; more a wry tilt of her mouth than a full-blown grin, but it's a welcoming-enough expression.
"I'm on an assignment," she says. "It's either this or just throw up my hands and blow the building up." She's kidding. Mostly.
She settles her chin in her hand, looking up at him. "Hi, Dean."
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What follows is some less than graceful hopping and crackling blue air.
“OW! Son of an ever-loving BITCH!”
That hurt.
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His trigger is a little more 'hair' than it probably should be. Uh. Kinda.
"You break anything?"
Is he gonna have to catch her if it looks like she's gonna break something with all that hopping?
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She's still perched on one leg, holding the offending foot in one hand. And looking fairly pained.
"No. Nope. I'm fine."
Embarrassed, but fine.
"Wasn't really using that leg, anyway. Was thinking about trying out the Long John Silver look."
Pegs don't feel pain.
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It's not that he's thought about it or anything (not even when he was ten, shut up).
Really.
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A ten-year old girl who thinks you're awesome and likes to talk, that's what.
And would you look at that? That's just who has just spotted Dean.
"Dean!"
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But swap it out he does.
"Hey, kiddo. Long time no see. You do any more singin' lately?"
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"We're having a talent show. At church.
"Marissa and I are singing 'Don't Rain on My Parade.' Her mom is helping us.
"How are you?"
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His grin goes a little crooked.
"You up for eating something, too?"
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"You look quite happy."
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Don't answer that, universe.
Just don't.
"How's it hangin', Jane?"
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She really can't help but grin around him, Dean does know how to do happy better than many people. Some day, she really must introduce him to Tom, somehow.
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He is a generous soul, is Dean Winchester.
Uh.
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She smiles.
Milliways never disappoints on the 'cute boy' front.
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She is, after all, pretty damn hot. And busty.
"Hey there, sweetheart. Good day?"
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"So far," she agrees pleasantly. (Even 'Dite's pleasantries tend to be a little lascivious.) "I love this place."
The word love is drawn out and savored, and Dean receives a quick up-and-down that is both assessing and generally approving.
"How about you, sugar?"
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He sees her quick up-and-down and matches it with one of his own.
"The beer, for one. You in the mood?"
For beer.
Duh.
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She's sitting with her feet tucked neatly under her chair, her elbow on the table, and her forehead in her hand. She's turning a blank, irritated stare on the nearest piece of evidence, which happens to be the infrared photo of a hallway (with a strange blurred figure in the foreground) that is resting on the table under her arm.
Her BPRD stab vest has been thrown across the back of an empty chair at the table. She is still, however, wearing combat boots and her gun.
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"Liz. Hey!"
What? Red-skinned demon boyfriend or not, she's hot.
"What's with the whole 'working' thing you've got going? You ever just take time off?"
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"I'm on an assignment," she says. "It's either this or just throw up my hands and blow the building up." She's kidding. Mostly.
She settles her chin in her hand, looking up at him. "Hi, Dean."
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Sometimes explosions are stealthy.
When, uh.
When there's construction nearby?
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