song_tra_bong | (no subject)

(no subject)

As a rule, Mary Anne doesn't sleep with her head under the pillow. That's useful weapon storage space and sleeping with your face near a knife is just silly.

But when you're trying to avoid that damn ray of light that keeps sneaking in through the blinds and stabbing you in the eye, and you're not inclined to get out of bed and draw the curtains, under the pillow is the best option. The knife has been knocked to the floor in the course of this exercise, and she is muttering insulting things about the sun under her breath.

Any possible discomfort or annoyance this may be causing her bedmate has not been taken into consideration.

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Goldy nods her head in muted agreement, and starts hunting around for her own clothes. They are spread rather haphazardly around the room, in various states of drapery and crumpledness, but eventually she homes in on underwear and yanks them on.

"Could you tell how long has passed for her?" she quizzes, while battling her way into heavily-creased jeans.

"I can try." She leans back against the wall, eyes directed at the ceiling but vaguely out of focus.

the reading has layers how much change how long how much time recent past is how you follow it back and back deeper and farther and darker the curve in the road

Eventually, she blinks and focuses back in on Goldy. "A year, give or take."

"For fuck's sake!"

Her grimacing face disappears into a mock turtleneck, and quickly reappears through the neck hole.

"That long?"

Goldy doesn't really do guilt. Not officially. So, as hard as that passage of time is to swallow, she doesn't blame herself for letting Miho go in the first place, or for not checking up on her before now. She's fucking upset about whatever has happened, because she had a certain amount of trust that Miho could take care of herself. And she intends to set things right however she can. But she doesn't feel responsible for it. Not really. Not yet.

She stoops to pick up her boots and socks—no need to put them on for the short trip back to her room—and snags her bra from where it's hanging on the barrel of a rifle propped at the end of the bed.

"Well. There's nothing we can do about that, except get her home."

After a scan around the room, she seems to be ready to leave.

"Alright. Um... you might want to leave the jacket behind, honey buns. Her city is in Southern California, if that's where she is."

She rolls her eyes and slips the jacket off, tossing it over her shoulder.

"You'd think magic tarot-ness would come with a weather forecast. Next stop, your room?"

"Yep. Clothes, new contacts, artillery, and... ooh, might as well load up with those grenades you gave me."

She offers a half-smile and a shrug, and starts making for the door.

"Actually," she adds over her shoulder with a little wrinkle of her nose. "Do you think it's such an emergency that we can't jump in my shower first? I'd hate to show up all bed-skanky, and smelling of... you."

Perhaps a chuckle would normally escape her at this point. But not today. She's blank.

"That would be a bit of a slap in the face, after a year of not seeing me," she reasons, fairly.

She nods.

"Cleanliness is godliness, or at least high up on the politeness scale. We've got time."

They head out into the hall and she locks the door behind her. Then, it's off to Goldy's room for final preparations. This trip is long overdue.

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