Moss was having a spectacular day! In the past hour, he'd managed to successfully hammer out a magnificently useful app to his iPhone which calculated the average price of produce from retailers within the nearest 10 kilometers. A very useful program indeed! He decided to drop by and let Jen know he was going on his lunch break. It would be absolutely atrocious and rude if he didn't inform her that he was taking his break. Heaven knows somebody might need help from the IT department in the next half-an-hour.
And as Moss opened the door to her office (and forgot to knock, as Aunt Irma was currently not visiting, thus, crisis averted), he found himself stepping out into... someplace completely unrecognizable.
"Well isn't this a pickle!" He stated out loud.
Moss hobbled around for a bit before deciding that he should probably ask the nearest pedestrian how on earth he'd found himself in this unfamiliar place. And more importantly, how long it would take to get back to work. He couldn't be late. It was against the rules
( ... )
Rachel stopped short, one corner of the comforter dangling perilously close to the ground as she blinked at this newcomer.
"Sorry, dude." She shook her head. "There's no buses here. And you sure can't get to London by bus or by anything. Unless, of course, the place decides to let you go? Which doesn't always happen. Welcome to Xanadu. I hope you enjoy your extended stay here. I miiiiight be able to get you back to San Francisco? But if so, I can recommend a rooming house to avoid like the clap."
Moss gave Rachel a very long, very deadpan, very awkward stare.
"What." He finally said, as if it were a statement and not a question. Moss's face then twitched slightly and he furiously shook his head. "That's completely unacceptable!" He exclaimed. "And why on earth would I want to go to San Francisco? I don't work in San Francisco! I work in London!" Apparently, Rachel's logic was ridiculous.
Rachel shrugged a shrug that would've been far more elaborate were she not weighted down with all her earthly possessions. "Sorry, dude. I don't decide how things work around here. I'm just telling you like it is. I want to get back to Los Angeles but that shit hasn't happened yet. Just San Francisco and a few other places. Not London, either."
Bruce is not a common sight in Xanadu of late - not that he's a sight anywhere if he doesn't want to be, but that's another kettle of whatever - but it's the middle of January, and the holidays that were making him a walking time bomb of grinch-like hair-trigger issues and crankiness have slipped away, leaving him with ... well, he's still nicer when it's not Christmas, anyway.
He's got a cup - it's probably coffee - and he's giving this marching lady a thin lipped but kind of otherwise curious look. This lasts for a moment until she's near enough to make eye contact, after which he points (with just his index finger, as he's still holding his coffee and the other hand's in his pocket) at her comforter. Hi.
Rachel looks up when she sees there's a man standing near, just in time to meet his gaze. He gestures, and she stops walking, eyes going a bit wide and head shaking ever so slightly from side to side in the near-universal non-verbalization of what?
He pointed. She looks down, and sees nothing amiss. She lifts her gaze, a puzzled expression on her face, but before shooting this guy a dirty look, she decides to look over her shoulder. Sure enough, she's about to be dragging her bedding across the ground.
She hesitates a moment, clearly trying to work out what to do about it. She lets the toilet plunger fall to the grass, freeing up a hand, and she moves the bundled comforter in front of herself so she can figure out the next step.
"Thank you," she calls over to the man. "I appreciate that."
Mr. Social Skills here is probably the least helpful person in a situation where one would appreciate some well-mannered sympathy, but ... he means well? A day like she seems to be having would be enough of a headache in a sane landscape. He abandons his coffee and moves closer.
"Can I give you a hand?" He's soft-spoken but even-sounding, American, somewhere east coast but too upper class to have an overly-distinctive accent.
Rachel looks up from her fussing with the comforter--it's difficult to get the thing rolled back up without the hems touching the ground. And she smiles. She's not picky about where help or sympathy comes from in a rough patch. The fact that someone's offering is enough.
"That'd be great," she replies with a nod. "I'm-- I probably should've, like, packed this in something but I was in a hurry. Do you mind?" Her speech gives her away as Californian, southern at that, a bit bubbly. It matches the smile she's offering as she holds out the comforter. "If you grab half we can fold it without it getting dirty."
Sam is a confused puppy. He showed up, out of the blue, and that in itself was confounding. What truly is perplexing is, somewhere in his travel, he lost a shoe. If only he could say this hasn't happened to him.
Spoiler: it has.
He's scratching the back of his head when the redhead in question is marching right past him. Far be it for him to interrupt a woman clearly on a mission, but he is a caring puppy. Not just confused. "Uh... miss?" he asks, motioning to the comforter in question. "Do you need some help with that?"
She's vaguely aware of a man standing vaguely near where she's about to walk, but Rachel's plan is to just ignore him and keep moving. But then he has to go and speak. Argh.
She looks up and bites back the sharp words that were ready to come out of her mouth--look, maybe Sam's a confused and caring puppy but he's also an impressively big puppy. Rachel's generally of the school of thought that says don't antagonize people approximately twice your size or who look like they could otherwise mangle you without breaking a sweat.
She blinks up at him, and then asks, "Help with what?"
And then she decides that makes her sound pretty dumb, so she looks down. Her fly isn't open, she hasn't lost any articles of clothing, she's not injured, her stuff's all-- oh. Wait. The comforter.
She's going to need another hand to deal with that, so she thrusts the toilet plunger at this gentleman--look, he wants to be helpful, right? "Hold this. Please."
Listen, Rachel. Sam is being a Good Samaritan here. It is the right thing to do. An angry redhead marching right past him, looking like she's had the kind of day he's had, with her comforter seconds from giving her another reason to be upset is something he can't ignore.
Sam also apologizes she has to look up and then up some more.
He ate a lot of veggies as a child.
Shut up, Dean.
Sam diligently takes the toilet plunger she hands him. There isn't much of another choice, okay. "Sure. Far be it for me to state the obvious, but... bad day?" he asks, his voice as sympathetic as he can make it.
It's about the time he takes the plunger that Rachel thinks, hey, maybe that's rude or gross or something. It's a clean plunger and all--she's a neat person and she rinses those things well, you know. But it's still a toilet plunger.
But he accepts it with grace and sympathy and after raging at her now-former landlord and stomping all the way from the rooming house to here, she's a bit out of steam. And she can't really justify raging at someone who can take a toilet plunger like it's no big thing and still ask about her day.
"Pretty bad," she admits. "I kinda just flounced from the place where I was living."
Marie-Sixtine has been living out of hotels for the past week or so, until she decides what she's going to do (something rash and impulsive, probably, she's been full of decisions of that ilk lately), but at the moment, she's in a mysterious city with far too many doors, none of which lead back to Philadelphia.
She thinks she's dreaming, presently. Her dreams are prone to this kind of intensive detail.
Even in her unconscious, though, she'd like to think she's helpful: she steps forward when she sees Rachel, abandoning the pay phone she can't make any calls from. "Ah--you're about to lose your blanket, I think. Do you want a hand with that?"
Nothing would make a bad day worse like getting that dirty, too. At the very least Six can maybe help reorganize so it's easier to carry without dropping anything on the ground.
Rash and impulsive is the kind of day Rachel's having, even if the snap judgment to gather up all her stuff and flee was sort of justified. She hasn't been able to get home any of the time she's left this place, inexplicably. So she stayed on in a cheap rooming house but then realized, to her dismay, that she wasn't even getting what she was paying for.
And then the bathroom ceiling fell in.
So she's marching without even knowing where she's going, lost in her thoughts and frustrations. The other woman's voice startles her. She stops on the grass, and turns and blinks a few times before the woman's words make it into her comprehension.
"Am I?" She looks over her shoulder and sure enough, the comforter's come unfurled. "Oh, geez. Yeah, if you wouldn't mind? I could use a hand."
Six crosses the space between them with a small smile, sympathetic -- she might be a ridiculously spoiled rich girl, but she's had days where everything seems to go awry, too. (Paris, 18 years old, cut off financially, in a God-awful little studio apartment with bright green walls. The bed couldn't even fit on the floor, there was a loft with a ladder above the kitchen. At one point the floorboards started to warp downward and she could slide up and down on a rolly chair.)
The sympathy and the kind words are enough to make Rachel deflate a bit, her wound-up anger and frustration slowly uncoiling. "Yes," she admits, with a wan little smile. "Completely. Thank you, by the way."
She drops the toilet plunger to the grass so she can help fuss with the comforter; between the two of them they get it to where it's no longer in danger of unfurling to the ground below.
Comments 51
And as Moss opened the door to her office (and forgot to knock, as Aunt Irma was currently not visiting, thus, crisis averted), he found himself stepping out into... someplace completely unrecognizable.
"Well isn't this a pickle!" He stated out loud.
Moss hobbled around for a bit before deciding that he should probably ask the nearest pedestrian how on earth he'd found himself in this unfamiliar place. And more importantly, how long it would take to get back to work. He couldn't be late. It was against the rules ( ... )
Reply
"Sorry, dude." She shook her head. "There's no buses here. And you sure can't get to London by bus or by anything. Unless, of course, the place decides to let you go? Which doesn't always happen. Welcome to Xanadu. I hope you enjoy your extended stay here. I miiiiight be able to get you back to San Francisco? But if so, I can recommend a rooming house to avoid like the clap."
Reply
"What." He finally said, as if it were a statement and not a question. Moss's face then twitched slightly and he furiously shook his head. "That's completely unacceptable!" He exclaimed. "And why on earth would I want to go to San Francisco? I don't work in San Francisco! I work in London!" Apparently, Rachel's logic was ridiculous.
Reply
Reply
Bruce is not a common sight in Xanadu of late - not that he's a sight anywhere if he doesn't want to be, but that's another kettle of whatever - but it's the middle of January, and the holidays that were making him a walking time bomb of grinch-like hair-trigger issues and crankiness have slipped away, leaving him with ... well, he's still nicer when it's not Christmas, anyway.
He's got a cup - it's probably coffee - and he's giving this marching lady a thin lipped but kind of otherwise curious look. This lasts for a moment until she's near enough to make eye contact, after which he points (with just his index finger, as he's still holding his coffee and the other hand's in his pocket) at her comforter. Hi.
Reply
He pointed. She looks down, and sees nothing amiss. She lifts her gaze, a puzzled expression on her face, but before shooting this guy a dirty look, she decides to look over her shoulder. Sure enough, she's about to be dragging her bedding across the ground.
She hesitates a moment, clearly trying to work out what to do about it. She lets the toilet plunger fall to the grass, freeing up a hand, and she moves the bundled comforter in front of herself so she can figure out the next step.
"Thank you," she calls over to the man. "I appreciate that."
Reply
Mr. Social Skills here is probably the least helpful person in a situation where one would appreciate some well-mannered sympathy, but ... he means well? A day like she seems to be having would be enough of a headache in a sane landscape. He abandons his coffee and moves closer.
"Can I give you a hand?" He's soft-spoken but even-sounding, American, somewhere east coast but too upper class to have an overly-distinctive accent.
Reply
"That'd be great," she replies with a nod. "I'm-- I probably should've, like, packed this in something but I was in a hurry. Do you mind?" Her speech gives her away as Californian, southern at that, a bit bubbly. It matches the smile she's offering as she holds out the comforter. "If you grab half we can fold it without it getting dirty."
Reply
Spoiler: it has.
He's scratching the back of his head when the redhead in question is marching right past him. Far be it for him to interrupt a woman clearly on a mission, but he is a caring puppy. Not just confused. "Uh... miss?" he asks, motioning to the comforter in question. "Do you need some help with that?"
Reply
She looks up and bites back the sharp words that were ready to come out of her mouth--look, maybe Sam's a confused and caring puppy but he's also an impressively big puppy. Rachel's generally of the school of thought that says don't antagonize people approximately twice your size or who look like they could otherwise mangle you without breaking a sweat.
She blinks up at him, and then asks, "Help with what?"
And then she decides that makes her sound pretty dumb, so she looks down. Her fly isn't open, she hasn't lost any articles of clothing, she's not injured, her stuff's all-- oh. Wait. The comforter.
She's going to need another hand to deal with that, so she thrusts the toilet plunger at this gentleman--look, he wants to be helpful, right? "Hold this. Please."
Reply
Sam also apologizes she has to look up and then up some more.
He ate a lot of veggies as a child.
Shut up, Dean.
Sam diligently takes the toilet plunger she hands him. There isn't much of another choice, okay. "Sure. Far be it for me to state the obvious, but... bad day?" he asks, his voice as sympathetic as he can make it.
Reply
But he accepts it with grace and sympathy and after raging at her now-former landlord and stomping all the way from the rooming house to here, she's a bit out of steam. And she can't really justify raging at someone who can take a toilet plunger like it's no big thing and still ask about her day.
"Pretty bad," she admits. "I kinda just flounced from the place where I was living."
Reply
Marie-Sixtine has been living out of hotels for the past week or so, until she decides what she's going to do (something rash and impulsive, probably, she's been full of decisions of that ilk lately), but at the moment, she's in a mysterious city with far too many doors, none of which lead back to Philadelphia.
She thinks she's dreaming, presently. Her dreams are prone to this kind of intensive detail.
Even in her unconscious, though, she'd like to think she's helpful: she steps forward when she sees Rachel, abandoning the pay phone she can't make any calls from. "Ah--you're about to lose your blanket, I think. Do you want a hand with that?"
Nothing would make a bad day worse like getting that dirty, too. At the very least Six can maybe help reorganize so it's easier to carry without dropping anything on the ground.
Reply
And then the bathroom ceiling fell in.
So she's marching without even knowing where she's going, lost in her thoughts and frustrations. The other woman's voice startles her. She stops on the grass, and turns and blinks a few times before the woman's words make it into her comprehension.
"Am I?" She looks over her shoulder and sure enough, the comforter's come unfurled. "Oh, geez. Yeah, if you wouldn't mind? I could use a hand."
Reply
Six crosses the space between them with a small smile, sympathetic -- she might be a ridiculously spoiled rich girl, but she's had days where everything seems to go awry, too. (Paris, 18 years old, cut off financially, in a God-awful little studio apartment with bright green walls. The bed couldn't even fit on the floor, there was a loft with a ladder above the kitchen. At one point the floorboards started to warp downward and she could slide up and down on a rolly chair.)
She reaches out to help rearrange the comforter.
"One of those days?"
Reply
She drops the toilet plunger to the grass so she can help fuss with the comforter; between the two of them they get it to where it's no longer in danger of unfurling to the ground below.
"I'm Rachel, by the way."
Reply
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