The Alley Behind 23 Sphinx, Sunday Evening

[nookiepowered]

"Deb" (whose name was by no means Deb, and thank God she remembered that now, because sgajdhgakjdh what a freaking stupid name) leaned back against the brick wall and took a long, slow drag on her cigarette. One of her last three cigarettes. The one spluttering street lamp cast dull, intermittent reflections in the leather jacket that she wrapped closely around her against the cooling night.

Don't ask where she got a leather jacket; when someone from Costume hands you something, you wear it. Even over a flight-attendant uniform.

Three cigarettes. Well, two and a half now. What was she going to do when they ran out? What? Would her memories of who she truly was disappear back into the withdrawal-crazed cover-story that was "Deb" or was that recovery a permanent one?

What was the cargo on that flight, and had it been destroyed along with most of the passengers, or was it even now in the hands of the Skywalkers or the Starks, either of which could spell certain doom for the world if they realized what they held? ...Not that she remembered what it was.

Sigh. Two and a quarter cigarettes left.

[OOC: for one who ...possibly knows who he is? Probably. This weekend, who can tell?]

Comments

[chosehumanity]

It probably wouldn't do the flimsy continuity of this soap any good if someone asked how John managed to find her. But he had been looking! He'd been looking since Vicki told him about her.

"Are you Deb?" he asked, throatily. He stood at the front of the alley, a cigarette dangling artfully from his mouth.

[nookiepowered]

Not that "Deb" was staring hungrily at that cigarette or anything, but "Deb" was totally staring hungrily at that cigarette. What if he had more?

"Who's asking?" she said, oh so subtly (aka not subtly at all because this gig didn't pay enough for prime-time level acting chops), last quarter of a cigarette dangling artfully from her mouth.

[chosehumanity]

"John," John said, and took a step forward. And then he whispered, as if it was a secret, "John Mitchell."

[nookiepowered]

"Should I know that name?" She was... kind of honestly asking, since certain things about this latest assignment were still hazy.

[chosehumanity]

"You were on that plane," Mitchell breathed, taking a few steps forward. Towards her. Because there she was. "With my mother."

Did Deb really have to be so distractingly attractive?

[nookiepowered]

Did that cigarette in his mouth have to be so distractingly attractive? (Also the slim-hipped body and the stubble and the hair and the askjdhalksdjh accent, but let's focus on the important things here.)

"...Wait, Vicki has a kid?" Look, Vicki was the only person from the plane she actually remembered clearly. Well, her and the bald asshole in 37D, who presumably wasn't this guy's mother.

[chosehumanity]

"What?" Mitchell asked. "No! She was in my kitchen! I asked her about my mother, she... mentioned you."

He took the cigarette out of his mouth in one smooth move, and exhaled smoke. Slowly.

[nookiepowered]

Oh, God, that was hot. Shady types in alleys exhaling smoke were always hot. And shady. Obviously. Since they were smoking and dimly-lit.

She pushed off the wall and took a few long-legged steps toward him. Because somehow she'd also acquired boots to replace her broken high-heel. Continuity was for people with a continuity editor. "I don't know your mother. I'd remember meeting somebody hot enough to have given birth to you."

Good dialogue was for people with a dialogue editor.

[chosehumanity]

Clearly.

"Are you sure?" Mitchell asked, taking another few steps until they were... in each other's personal space. "I need to know... if someone heard her last words..."

[nookiepowered]

She was tempted to say Well, if she was on my flight, they were probably 'aaaaaaaaghghgh!' but people had been fired for improvising lines that were funnier than the script. Also he was really close, close enough to smell his unfiltered, non-menthol, non-light cigarette. Oh God.

"I did hear somebody say I love you, John while everything was going to hell." It had come from someone throwing up in the bathroom, but details, details.

[chosehumanity]

John took a deep, long breath that his body didn't actually need, not that he remembered that right now. "Thank you," he whispered. Huskily.

[nookiepowered]

"Any time," she whispered back, just as huskily, but with a more obviously heaving bosom, because her body did need breath and also because she had breasts. Just in case he'd missed that while they were kind of right there in his face.

[chosehumanity]

"Yes..." Mitchell said.

Certainly, there were other things he should say. Or do. But he was a little distracted by the heaving bosoms.

[nookiepowered]

"Is there anything I can to... help?" Clearly he needed some consoling during this heavily emotional time, right? Plus the flight attendant training hadn't entirely worn off when she remembered it was a cram-course cover story.

[chosehumanity]

"I can... think of some things," Mitchell said, abruptly forgetting about his mom or his cigarette (which had vanished somewhere in the proceedings) because there were breasts. "If you're so inclined..."

[nookiepowered]

She hadn't forgotten about his cigarette, exactly - the things her hands were (implied to be) doing in his pants just out of frame were only partly because she was so inclined, and partly because she was trying to find his--

"Is that a pack of Marlboros or are you just happy to see me?"

She was pretty sure it wasn't a pack of Marlboros, actually, but since her cigarette had withered to ash and disappeared during a cutaway shot over her shoulder at him, her mouth was free to latch on to his and save him the trouble of denying it.

[chosehumanity]

And Mitchell, who cared not for disappearing cigarettes or packs of Marlboros, moved closer. Squishing his hips to hers, kissing her for all that she was worth, edging towards R-rated territory--

--and then the camera cut away.

Wah wah, daytime.

[nookiepowered]

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