[closed log]

[gottagofast]

WHO: Tommy and Simca
WHAT: coming back from the end of the world 10 years late with chinese food, because he misses her face
WHEN: Thursday night, Simca's apartment


In retrospect he should have maybe called, or texted, or at the very least sent her a message over the network or something. Tommy never was really any good at planning ahead; when you were literally, physically capable of putting yourself two steps ahead of the action, there never was any real reason to. Even though he'd slowed down considerably as of late, some old habits were hard to break.

Now he was standing in front of Simca's door without a hope or a plan, not knowing if she was even home; armed with a bag of greasy chinese food as a prop, without knowing whether or not she'd already eaten. It was a bit laughable, really; somebody who'd always prided himself on his ability to push forward and move on, standing stock still in front of an old flame's door while the grease from his lo mein congealed through the bottom of a paper bag. Maybe he was getting caught up in the nostalgia of being stranded in a point of time that seemed, contrary to his life up until now, almost idyllic.

Or maybe - like the lo mein - he'd just had a craving.

Running a hand back through his hair to ensure it was sufficiently windswept, he raised his fist to knock on the door: three times, firmly.

Comments

[migratorybird]

Simca only used formalities when they were needed. They were a trump card when she wanted to dismiss someone. She always found a way to use them to her advantage, and forget them when she hardly cared (which she didn't, of course, she never really cared about them). This was one of those times that she didn't care. The door opens with a bit of hesitance, the world outside was strange enough for her to take the proper precautions, but when she looks him up and down from the crack in the door she lets it swing open partially, unhinging the lock with deft fingers.

"Tommy?" the curious hint to her voice is more for the aged details in his face, no matter how subtle they may seem to someone else. Her mind worked differently. She saw the world around them and the ones standing in it as if they were part of the atmosphere. The differences were surprising, but not unwelcome.

Her eyes go from his face to the bag of Chinese food and then back to his face with the most disapproving, brow-lifted expression that he could possibly imagine.

"Did you want to come in?"

[gottagofast]

"Hey," Tommy's all sheepish smiles, leaning his free hand on the doorway in a big to look more casual, "So... I was just time-travelling through the neighborhood when I found myself suddenly standing outside your door. So I figured, as long as I'm here I might as well say hi, maybe show off my new look..."

Simca doesn't look impressed. In fact she looks impressively stern, which might've been enough to deter his younger self. Fortunately Tommy's much too old to think he's better off quitting while he's ahead. Besides: he has chinese food! He hefts the bag up to save her disapproving stare the trouble of making the trek all the way up from his hip and rattles it enticingly. A smell wafts out from inside; like sweet, greasy heaven.

"I was kind of hoping I could. I brought noodles."

[migratorybird]

There he goes. Some things never changed.

The island's event had come with surprise, but not shock, and she had her own way of dealing with them, and her own exposure to them. If she had not been adaptable she would've died a long time ago. It were some of the things that decided to hang on that caused the problems.

She steps aside to let him in. Like many of his other impromptu visits to her residence, she's dressed accordingly, which means she's usually most comfortable in a pair of frilly panties and an appropriate but somehow unmatched tank top. She pulls it off like she pulls everything else off, with utter confidence.

The living area, and to a lesser extent the kitchen, are littered with parts and tools. Gears, wires, knobs, tiny wrenches, larger wrenches, small screws and nails, and even an occasional half-assembled motor that buzzes to life. The couch is pushed up against the wall, and everything that looks like it could produce some kind of static is carefully tucked away. There's a home-made stereo system that's haphazardly hooked up three or four power strips that may just blow out the electricity to the entire building at any time. There's a faint hum from it, if anyone listened hard enough. Two speakers are laying face-down on the floor, most likely to produce some kind of pulse from the bass through the floor. (She had checked the material. She knew how the carpet conducted sound.)

She waves a hand dismissively, assuming he'd close the door behind him, and disappears into the kitchen to get a few pairs of chopsticks.

"For free noodles!" She says with all enthusiasm. "You look older. Did you get older?" There's some rattling. When she returns, she pokes him in the cheek with the long end of the chopstick. "Almost like, hm." She thinks about it. "Like you've been through a lot."