fucking_ebay: (angry | get out of my house)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
It's like he's become completely invisible, but when he looks at himself in the mirror (as he increasingly does for reassurance rather than vanity), he's still there. Others don't seem to agree, though. It's not the deliberate looking away of potential punters resisting an attempt to real them in for a show, but a total failure to even see that he's there to be avoided. Even people he knows pass him by like he's not there.

Finally, on the second day, he snaps. He grabs the shoulder of a woman walking by and wrenches her around to face him...but she slips out from under his grasp like a wisp of air and keeps walking, oblivious. "Look at me!" he snaps at a man going the other way, whose eyes seem to look right through him before sliding by to gaze at something in the distance. "Fucking stop!" demands Peter, putting himself in the way of a third pedestrian, who shoulders past like Peter weighs as much as a feather.

This continues for several minutes, Peter becoming more and more strident in his attempts to get someone, anyone to acknowledge his presence. It culminates when he comes across a hotdog stand and literally slaps the food out of a customer's hand. "...Damn wind," says the vendor, but Peter gleans some iota of comfort from the man's look of confusion.
essentiallyharmless: (Long as a road)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
Lucy's had a pretty eventful few weeks. She's mostly moved out of her flat, letting Daniel take it over, leaving the necessities and things she's not overly interested in bringing - and also a fair amount of books she's already read, which she normally would bring, but Daniel seemed like he needed reading material.

That alone took a certain amount of time, not to mention decorating and arranging everything in her new apartment, which was the first thing she did. She can't stand not having a safe space that's just hers, her plants and her books and her fishes, everything decorated to be light and airy and soothing, someplace that feels safe and homely. It had been essential to maintain some level of sanity when she was staying all cooped up, and even now when she's not there as much, it's something to keep her grounded. Maybe she should get a cat, too. The fishes are lovely, but they're not all that good for being affectionate with, and she finds she needs that now. Perhaps she'll become a crazy cat lady. The 'crazy' part already applies to her, but at least now she's functioning.

Which is probably thanks to the other big change. Working for Romac. She'd had her reservation to begin with - she still does, of course, but after everything that's happened, she thinks she's learned her lesson about letting herself be swayed and blindly trusting in something bigger than herself. There are definitely flaws within Romac's system, and she's pretty sure a lot of what they do could be handled better, and then there are the people working there who are only doing so for their personal advancement...

But then she also quickly found genuinely lovely people, people who really are just trying to do good. People who care about not just the city and its inhabitants, but also about the poor people falling through almost every day. People helping to manage crisis after crisis. And perhaps she is letting herself be a little swayed by finally feeling like she can belong to a community again. It's been so long since the last time. Years. Once upon a time, when she used to organise fundraisers, and then work in publishing, digging out new authors she enjoyed and helping them succeed. More than once it's crossed her mind to go back to that, but she doesn't know how to do so when she has to start over, without her family's connections and the financial security. Perhaps eventually her work with Romac will give her enough stability and security to do so again.

The work is good, too. They managed to find something suitable for her, organising and managing and doing a lot of interaction with people, collaborating to make things happen. Considering how little help she feels like she got from the rebels when she arrived, just an apartment and some money, she wants to make the city more welcoming to those who are arriving now. Romac actually has the resources to do more than that, if she can just manage to convince them to.

She suddenly finds herself brimming with ideas on how to improve things. Better assessment of what a new riftie actually needs, a proper social security network, and making it easier for people to ask for help. Education and integration, finding solutions for people who might not have as easy a time to blend in or learn their customs. Better follow-up. Giving those who will never be able to function normally in society something worthwhile to do, something that both contributes to Romac and the world, and is also personally fulfilling. They have so many resources just in the people who keep falling through the Rift, if only they could manage them better. It makes Lucy feel like her work actually matters, and that is a rewarding feeling to have.

So far, she's pretty sure the rebels haven't really caught on to the fact that Lucy's left, or at least not enough to send someone to clear out her apartment. She assumes they'll find out soon enough, though, so she wants to keep in contact with Daniel and make sure he isn't suddenly thrown out on the street or... arrested for squatting or anything like that. That, and also she finds Daniel rather sweet, and probably a good friend to have.

And so Lucy is checking in on her apartment - now Daniel's, if all but on paper. She could just let herself in, but in case Daniel's home, she knocks on the door and announces herself. "Daniel, are you home? It's Lucy."
rae_of_sun: (pleased)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
Well, if there's ever been a reason for Sunshine to start pushing herself in the magic-handling department, the arrival of a mega-toxic kali nightmare goon from wherever-the-hell - and a subsequent text containing a ward symbol against said nightmare goon - definitely qualifies. Gods, has she missed wards. And, okay, she finds it a little hard to fully trust the effectiveness of a ward symbol drawn by… well, anyone aside from an accredited wardsmith (herself included)… but if there's even a slight chance that it'll work, she will gladly wallpaper the entire damn building with the thing.

Better to start small, though, especially if what she's going for is 'permanent.' Which is why she's standing outside her own apartment door with the little image of the symbol pulled up on her phone. She examines the picture with a tight little frown, memorizing the details in case intent is not enough. Then she tucks her phone into the back pocket of her shorts and braces her palms against the door.

Okay. She can do this. It's big - far bigger than anything she's attempted before - but it's only wood. Easy compared to metal or stone. And her grandmother said she could do anything in bright sunlight, and there's plenty of that shining in through the window at the end of the hall, all of two feet to her right. So.

Sunshine shuts her eyes, pictures the ward symbol as clearly as she can, and shoves.

A bolt of power runs down her arms and into her door, the recoil strong enough to force her back a pace. She opens her eyes, regains her balance, and takes in her new door.

At first, she thinks it was a bust; the change is so subtle. But then she realizes that the ward symbol is there, right in the middle of her door and as large as a dinner plate. It's visible only because the grain of the wood abruptly changes direction, like an incredibly fine inlay. She steps closer and runs her fingertips over the line where symbol ends and door begins, but she can't feel a seam.

"Gods," she breathes. Could she darken it? Probably, yes, if she tried again. Make it a bit more obvious, if that's what's needed. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. It worked. How's that for permanent?

Okay. She'll come back to her own door later. First, she has to do Spike's. And then the main entrances. And then the windowsills. And then literally every other flat surface she can reach.

[ooc: Sunshine is gonna spend the day WARDING ALL THE THINGS, so feel free to have your character run into her in any given hallway, down by the front door, or even up on the roof. Pretty much anywhere in the rebel apartment building is fair game. And hey, she'll probably ward your door if you ask nicely.]
peacefulexplorer: in ancient fading lines (Default)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
Coffee was developed in Ethiopia circa the fifteenth century, though there have definitely been indications of coffee-drinking as a habit in Yemen, and the developmental process of learning to cultivate it and then brew it and then mass-produce it and then manufacture it to consumers must have had a truly tremendous impact on the growth of human history when one considered it in the broader historical context. There must have been countless world leaders who loved their coffee, who were addicted to coffee, who required it to function, who made their best and worst and most historically influential decisions while drinking coffee or waiting for coffee or having been deprived of coffee for unreasonably long stretches of time.

No matter how many stimulating linguistic exercises Daniel puts his brain through (break the word down to its origins, from the Dutch koffie to the Arabic kahwa to the Turkish kahveh until finally the definitive term itself was developed in the sixteenth century), he always seems to loop back to the extreme, infinitely frustrating lack of coffee.

The fifteenth century had coffee.

And he does not.

His hand creeps up to take off his glasses so the other can massage his pounding forehead. He’s already resolved to add “instant coffee” to the suggestion box of things that could improve the conditions of extended offworld missions. The SGC probably doesn’t actually have a suggestion box, so he files away a reminder to suggest that they get one. Civilian feedback might not seem all that important to them but they should know by now that those opinions have got to count for something and - oh, hello.

Caffeine withdrawal forgotten, Daniel’s thoughts abruptly divert to the singularity taking place in front of him.

It’s almost like a wormhole but not - not quite. Roughly conical, shifting. There’s something off about it. No gate, for one. And for another, it - well, it pulses.

The glasses go back on and Daniel scrambles to his feet and stares, squinting at the apparent spaciotemporal anomaly that has just formed without warning.

“Hello,” says Daniel, just in case the thing is sentient. He raises a hand and waves.

The not-really-a-wormhole doesn’t respond in any obvious way. Daniel’s head tilts to one side as he watches the thing swirl and shift in its oddly mesmerizing, seemingly unpatterned movements. He tries communication again, speaking as one scientific anomaly to another.

“Do you understand me?” Daniel asks slowly. “Are-are you, ah, alive?”

He probably shouldn’t get any closer. He probably shouldn’t -

The thing swells unexpectedly, wrapping some indistinguishable force around Daniel and pulling -

Oh, hell.

And then he is suddenly, inexplicably somewhere else. Somewhere that looks suspiciously not like P5X-909 but that felt nothing like beaming technology and he was on P5X-909 not ten seconds ago. It felt like ten seconds, though Daniel knows better than to trust his own perception of time when he's been known to mistakenly spend entire days poring over the same translation.

Daniel stares at the fountain he's unceremoniously ended up at, crowned with an angel holding its wings and arms outspread. If he didn't know better, he'd say -

He'd say he's on Earth.

If he ever comes back from this one, he’s going to add “keep Daniel Jackson from dying in every unpleasant way imaginable” to the suggestion box.

essentiallyharmless: (Drunk as lords)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
Lucy has managed to get out of the house for once. It's difficult when you have nowhere in particular to go to, and no one to go with, and inertia and directionlessness is pressing down on you. But staying inside those oppressive walls isn't doing her any favours, and there's only so much a roof garden can do for your sanity.

So she's made it all the way downtown, to Wilmot's End. It's not the sort of establishment she usually goes for, but there's a much higher chance of meeting someone actually interesting. And somehow she feels more at home with the weird and scary. She's tried to slip back in the kind of world she used to belong in, fundraisers and fancy parties and publishing and regular work, but she hates having to start from scratch, and after years of weird and scary, it doesn't hold her interest anyway.

So she's sitting at a table near the back, nursing a drink and half-reading a book, looking up now and then, waiting for someone to approach her, or to see someone she wants to approach.
apidae: (Default)
[personal profile] apidae
Early Monday morning, Bee rises with no alarm (she has never needed an alarm with the sun to greet her) and pulls on her same favorite dress. She's almost never needed to wash it (once, a couple days ago, when she suddenly seemed to be sweating again) - it seems like entropy has left her behind, or stayed back home. No one else seems to have this luxury. It's kind of nice, Bee supposes.

Nicer still is the email she's received on her phone. She's been approved! She can raise her darlings on the roof as soon as she pleases. She can't keep from dancing around her apartment for a moment. She eats an orange - well, she has to eat something - and licks the juice from her fingers, which refuse to get sticky. She's going to go out today. Maybe Daine can help her find a colony that would like to move.

Now, now, Bee, mustn't get too far ahead. First she should let everyone else know. She'd decided some time ago that as soon as she got her approval, she'd do the courteous thing and inform her neighbors. At least, that's what seems courteous and reasonable to her. Anyone could have an allergy! Or a phobia, for that matter. Or, someone might wander up not realizing, might abuse her darlings, god forbid. It's only proper. And this way, she'll finally get to meet her neighbors.

Not bothering to put shoes on, as usual, Bee steps out and begins progressing from door to door, knocking, waiting, knocking again, and leaving a little note she'd prepared in advance if she doesn't get an answer. Much nicer to get answers, though. Apartment buildings can be so lonely.

[[ooc: If you live in the Rebel Apartments, feel free to respond and react to Bee's exciting news! She'd just love to meet you.]]
essentiallyharmless: (Hot as fire)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
As has been usual lately, Lucy has trouble falling asleep, and difficulty making it stick once she finally does. She's ended up in this rhythm of getting only three or four hours of sleep, until it builds up and she passes out for a dozen hours. No matter what, she always seems to end up tired.

Johnny seems to be much the same, so when Lucy finally gives up on sleep, she sits up carefully and takes down one of her books, rather than start clanging around the kitchen making tea, when Johnny is actually asleep for the moment. And since they had such a late night, it's well into the morning by now, with quite enough sunlight coming in through her light curtains for her to read by.
essentiallyharmless: (Lost as a ghost)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
You might say it's self-indulgent
You might say it's self-destructive
But, you see, it's more productive
Than if I were to be happy

And sappy songs about sex and cheating
Bland accounts of two lovers meeting
Make me want to give mankind a beating


Lucy hasn't felt this at home in bar in almost a decade. She feels like she did in her early twenties. Which, unfortunately, is not a good thing. Directionless, trapped, scared, bored, wanting to act out but simultaneously terrified she'll fuck everything up. Wanting comfort but looking for it in all the wrong places.

Really, really just wanting to get drunk, maybe dance, probably have sex. Preferably with someone who won't ask too many questions, or know her well enough to realise she's acting out of character. Anyone who it won't matter if she breaks down over her visit to an abortion clinic yesterday. It's not self-destruction, it's just self-distraction.
essentiallyharmless: (Ugly as a toad)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
After her conversation with Aly last night, Lucy immediately found a 24-hour pharmacy, bought a pregnancy test, and went straight home.

It took her half the night before getting up the nerve to use it, and by the next morning, at the very most she's only briefly dozed off, still in last night's dress, and her hair having gradually come undone.

She manages to wait till nine in the morning, knowing Peter is pretty much never up before then, before she hurriedly heads down the hall, knocking loudly at his door, her hands shaking.

[Content warning: Discussions of abortion, and quite probably some deeply emotionally unhealthy behavior. And sex, probably. Or sexual behavior, at any rate.]
essentiallyharmless: (Steady as drum)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
It's Friday night, so Lucy's out supplementing her income a bit. Going to upscale bars, tracking down the people who are assholes, and just drunk enough not to notice her helping herself to their wallet, that's her thing. She has no problem whatsoever fitting in at these places, of course, having frequented them for much more leisurely reasons in the past.

She does make a point never to steal at those bars she'd actually like to drink at, of course, in the event that she gets caught in a way that her time-rewind won't get her out of.

She's on the last bar of the night, nursing a glass of wine and scouting for interesting marks.
has_a_horn: (taking you to school)
[personal profile] has_a_horn

There's something new about the city this afternoon. It's not particularly hard to miss. At about noon, a giant scaled figure emerges from the Hudson River, emits a loud screeching roar, and heads for central park.

It's Godzilla, straight out of the 1954 Toho film.

Or, rather, that's what it looks like. Gabriel has a scheme, and this scheme involves in-fluxing a little bit of fun into this city with a grand-scale illusion. His idea of fun might need some work, by human standards, but this is exactly the thing for him at the moment. There are news reports on the radio and television, both in English and in Japanese, but they aren't given by any newscasters anyone in New York might be familiar with, because Gabriel is projecting them.

As Godzilla shakes the water off it's back and walks onto the island, Gabriel pulls out his phone and texts Peter. He really needs him involved with this.

[ooc: Godzilla will make his way across the city, having a good smash. Feel free to run into it anywhere. As this is Gabe's illusion, any interactions with Godzilla will be controlled by Gabriel, even if he's not nearby. People Gabriel doesn't like might want to avoid getting underfoot, or else they'll feel the bone crunching effects of being stepped on, even if nothing has actually happened.]
fucking_ebay: (misc | teleportation)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
It seems to Peter that he ought to be either celebrating or fuming. He's got his power back, not at all entirely against his will, and it's hard for even him to deny that he's pleased and excited. It feels right -- it was always his after all, and letting it go was, in hindsight, like letting someone walk off with a rare artifact or weapon from his collection (if he'd still had his collection, that is). So that's good, especially since he didn't have to ask for it back or even admit that he really wanted it. What's not so good is the revelation that Seth was apparently locked up for four months by the rebels. Gabriel might not think Peter and Lucy are in any danger, but that sort of thing tends to set off alarm bells.

First things first, though. Gabriel said he was making sure the power went back in right, but Peter wants to find out for himself. He tells himself it's just that he doesn't want to be surprised the next time it happens (or doesn't) by accident. Regardless of the reason, he draws in a breath, calls up the power, and goes.

A burst of fire in the middle of the room, and Peter appears neatly between Lucy's couch and television. Rocking back on his heels, he looks around the flat with an air of surprise. It wasn't where he'd initially thought to go -- he'd meant to zap over to the other side of the room, but then the thought of surprising Lucy with the return of his power had popped into his head, along with a crystal clear mental image of just where he would land and how it would feel. What's shocking is that when he gave in to the temptation, that's exactly how it happened.
erratic_hematic: (Default)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
He's sitting on the edge of Angel's desk in the inimitable offices of Wolfram and Hart, trying to convince himself that he's ready to move on and create a brand new undead life for himself. Spread out into new avenues. Save the world. Again. Do something that isn't hoping for Buffy to come around. The Apocalypse is coming, they say, so better get ready for that, get ready to stop it when it rears it's ugly head. It almost feels like it might be possible. It almost feels like he's at the start of something worthwhile.

He's sitting on the edge of Angel's stupidly enormous desk in the inimitable offices of Wolfram and Hart, and then...he isn't.

A taxi cab hits him, knocks him off his feet, and- Fuck! The sun. "Shit shit shit! What the bloody hell-" Spike cowers in the street, pulling his long leather coat over his head as he tries to block out the sun before his skin starts sizzling. Every car in the lane he's blocking seem to start blaring their horns. He shouts out a few choice obscenities and turns to look for cover from the sun.

Only, his skin isn't sizzling. At all. Not even where his hands are exposed.

Slowly, he lowers his coat and looks around, squares his shoulders and pulls his coat straight. New York, by central park. He thinks he can see The Museum of Natural History a couple blocks down, but he's got more things to worry about now than what the current exhibits are. He'd recognize New York in any universe and it probably is another universe, judging by how he's not a pile of ash in the middle of the intersection by now.

The street being littered with dozens of copies of Oh! The Places You'll Go! by Dr. Seuss is a little more of a mystery. He stares at them for a moment, dumbfounded. "The hell."

He bends to pick one up just as the cab driver that hit him moments before has the bloody nerve to lean on his horn. Spike grabs the book, stands, and kicks a dent into the offending bumper. "Alright, alright, I'm getting out of the way, hold your damn horses, arsehole." He limps for a few steps before he recovers, and heads towards the park, confused and still clutching the book. Maybe Angel got whammied over to New York too, though Spike isn't really sure he wants to go looking for him.
fucking_ebay: (rough | cigar)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
Peter arrives at Lucy's door looking a bit wild. He's still holding a glass that has since been emptied of liqueur through one means or another, and his shirt and shoes are conspicuously absent today. He knocks sharply on her door, and reminds himself to make an effort to be more angry than scared. "Lucy!" he calls, "Open up, it's Peter!"

She'd better answer. He's nearly at the point where he'd consider teleporting past her door, though he's not so sure he can manage it without teleporting past her whole flat and out into the open air beyond.
fucking_ebay: (misc | teleportation)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
For once, Peter hasn't waited for his money to run out before he started busking. Celebrating allowance day with a bout of shopping, restaurant-going, and drunken debauchery twice per month has been the closest he comes to feeling a sense of satisfaction at being able to live the kind of life he wants to live, but this month...this month he's only three days out from allowance day and already feeling listless, even stir-crazy. He tells himself it doesn't hurt to save up a little extra to blow on the next binge.

For once, too, he's gone out and invested some of his allowance into new equipment -- flash paper, in particular, though there are a few other odds and ends he's picked up and started playing with. If asked, he'd say this is all still piddling bullshit and completely beneath him, but there's a certain sense of pride trying to sneak in now and then when he really gets a gaggle of tourists going. Today he can be found around the same part of Central Park he always frequents when he's busking, drawing in passersby for some close-up magic.

[OOC: Since Peter will ostensibly be at the park for hours, he can meet multiple people throughout the day. Each thread will be assumed to take place at a different time of day so they don't overlap.]
bluesuit_handy: (.misc | lounge)
[personal profile] bluesuit_handy
Today is a day like any other day, apart from Andrew and James having run out of both tea and coffee at home. This is a matter of much greater concern to Andrew than it is to James; even in his current human form, the former android hasn't given in to the allure of a raging caffeine addiction. Andrew, on the other hand, can feel his eyelids drooping and his head threatening to ache at the mere thought of a day without.

He'll need to go shopping to prevent this from happening again tomorrow, but for today there's a quicker solution. He's picked up a newspaper somewhere and ensconced himself in a corner armchair at a coffee shop, and can now be found dunking biscotti in his drink while he tries to balance the paper on one raised knee so he can read it at the same time. Reading glasses perch on his crooked nose, a scarf lays balled up and discarded in his lap, and he's even shed his outermost coat, though multiple layers still shield him from the chill. He's aware, peripherally, of the gentle press of the leather collar around his neck. He resists the urge to reach up and fiddle with it, knowing he triple checked to make sure it was hidden before he left the flat. Today isn't the first day he's agreed (or asked, actually) for James to leave it on him, but wearing it in public is still new enough to make him a little nervous when he thinks about it.
ginormotron: (i'm goddamn tired)
[personal profile] ginormotron
The angels are falling. There’s a stinging wash over Sam’s eyes that makes him squint, and the light of their burning grace hurts to watch. It hurts even when he closes his eyes, something in him that’s still, whatever, resonating, and he can feel it somewhere deep under his diaphragm, like someone’s stuck their hand in and is tearing. The angels are falling, and it hurts. His skin feels too tight, hypersensitive with the fever he’s had for weeks, and the angels are falling, and Crowley’s chained up to a chair in that church half-cured, and they’ve failed. Sam’s failed, again.

The wet gravel is cold under his ass, and he can do nothing but huddle into Dean’s side and stare up at the sky, tears leaking hot from his eyes. He feels young and stupid, and he hates Dean for being right again, even as some part of him wishes that he could be eight years old again and cry into his brother’s shoulder and not feel like he doesn't deserve it. Somewhere nearby, the ground shakes with impact, and Sam convulses, and blacks out.

Read more... )
essentiallyharmless: (Neat as a word)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
Lucy has fallen into a nice sort of rhythm over the past weeks. Her apartment, small though it is, looks more like a home than a dump, and she's even been building up a wardrobe. The rebels don't really pay well, but pick-pocketing does. One the whole, the weird and disturbing has been infrequent and brief, and she's been getting comfortable. Obviously it can't last. Currently she's making tea, pondering what book to read next.
fucking_ebay: (misc | teleportation)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
Since the last big mess of shared dreams, the memories dredged up and exposed for Gabriel to see have plagued Peter. It's not unusual for him to have nightmares or to dream of vampires, but it's been a while since he last had the kind of dreams he's had the last few nights.

He's hiding under his bed, cringing and crying as quietly as he can as shots ring out a few rooms away. His mother screams and he claps his hands over his ears, expecting the exact moment when she stops screaming because he's relived this memory too many times to count. The setting is achingly familiar yet completely out of his control, his sleeping mind unable to grasp just why he knows what's going to happen, why his gut is twisting itself in knots as the gun goes off again and it's his father's turn to scream.

Usually at this point the dream dissolves into some other terrible memory, or loops around and starts again with him sitting up watching telly with his parents before the monster comes. Tonight's a little different, though. In the way of dreams, time foreshortens itself. Peter trembles and stares at the pair of feet just in front of him, trying to breathe as quietly as he can. It knows he's here. The figure bends down, a smiling face dipping into view, eyes locked onto Peter. "Hey, guy," says Jerry.

Peter's heart seizes and he leaps. Then, suddenly, there's a burst of red light before he's falling into darkness. He hits something soft that seems to reach up and grab him to entangle him and panics, screaming and thrashing against it.
essentiallyharmless: all by harbek unless otherwise noted (Default)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
Lucy lays in bed for a long while after waking up. Her motivation to do things hasn't increased much since she got here, or it seems to come and go in waves. Quite often she doesn't even go out, she just stays in and reads and drinks a lot of tea.

Eventually she reaches out and grabs her phone to check the time. Except it seems to be glitching - she can't read the numbers. The clock image however tells her it's just after nine. She taps through to glance over the headlines, but the writing is all messed up there too. That's odd. Whatever.

She drags herself out of bed and goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash a bit, then picks out some clothes. However, while pulling on a pair of jeans, her eyes catch the cover of one of the books she's been reading, and she realises that the cover of that is nonsense as well.

She grabs the book and stares at it, nonplussed. Flipping through it, she looks at random pages, the letters unrecognisable and bleeding together on all of them. Starting to panic a little, she throws the book onto her bed and starts going through her bookshelf. Every book she pulls out, it's more of the same.

She steps back and runs her hands through her hair, at a loss. She'll go ask Peter. Show him the book, make sure it's like that for him too and she hasn't just gone crazy.

She pulls on a top and cardigan and shoes, grabs a book, her phone and keys, and hurries out the door and heads towards his apartment. Turns out, however, it's quite difficult to find the right door when you can't read the numbers or the nametags. Thankfully she's been there often enough that she's fairly certain she remembers how many doors to pass to get to the right one.

She rings the bell twice and knocks hard on the door, hard enough to make sure he wakes up if he's asleep, and that he realises it's urgent.


bigapplesauce: (Default)
The Big Applesauce


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