simple and somehow sublime.

now listen. i’m taking a big chance not booking you.

upsa-daisy.

you’re a wonder, really.

come in, my boy, come in.

is that supposed to establish some sort of bond between us?

i’m sorry, my dear, very sorry.

lie down. even if you don’t sleep, you’ll relax.

to you, my child. still my beautiful, my blessed, little baby.

i’ve told you just about everything about me.

open up. let me in.

pals again, you understand? same old pals.

yes, save that for somebody who’s never heard it before.

you have one badly twisted foot, my darling.

sorry i’m late. i paused at the corner to throw a rock at some small children.

do you think you could behave yourself for, say, three straight months?

i can’t remember when i’ve seen anything more revolting.

oh, please, darling. for me.

you bet your sweet life all at once. none of that dollar down, dollar a week stuff.

take it easy. if there’s any busting gonna be done, i’ll do it.

why don’t you look where you’re going?

now, there’s no reason whatever for you to fret about anything at all.

you think you’re an ordinary person, but you’re not.

pure affection, my darling. i’m just so happy, that’s all.

have you ever tried thinking of me as a rather pathetic old creature, weak rather than wicked?

you animal.

remind me to have a key made for you.

i’ve never heard words like this in my life.

when i got there, you pitched into me.

it’s been eleven years since we last saw each other.

well, since you insist, i think you’re a rude, cruel, pushing, heartless bore.

come, my dear, to my reluctant arms.

you can have it if you want. and it’s forty dollars a week.

can’t you think of yourself for one little minute?

well, i guess i’m what you might call a bad assembly job.

the whole thing is forgot, dead and buried.

if i catch you out again tonight, i’ll pump a chocolate soda down your gullet.

The original A-team. The Aquamaniac costume continues to crack me up

Dolores slumps forward, a puddle of dark frizz and exhaustion on the breakfast table, and grumbles something out. To the trained ear, it sounds almost like "need... coffee..."

"uh-huh," he hums. "figured as much."

and forthright is her middle name: "your motel?" she scoffs, "really? you've already planned a stay here, out in the middle of nowhere?"

she turns to consider him and his offer. the lift of her brows, the lean away, all but scanning him with her gaze.

but she looks too long and breaks, breathing a low laugh, shaking her head, piling the shirt into his arms and a snowglobe on top after all, as an afterthought. she flashes a smirk on the way to the checkout.

he is—through and through—a city boy, and a spoiled one at that. he could've saved some money bunking at one of the more corny motels, but he knew his limitations. the quaint bed and breakfast run by a retired couple in sundance, a thirty minute drive from the igneous butte, would do the trick. the elderly like templeton peck.

he spends an awkward moment or two balancing his gift-laden arms. eventually, the snowglobe ends up in his left palm, hannibal's mug in his right, amy's keychain and b.a's necklace dangling from his right fingers, the pinkie and index respectively, and both tees folded over his left arm.

"suppose i should've gotten one of those baskets, huh?" he appears behind her once he recovers, briefly overtaking her so he can unload onto the counter.

the cashier smiles at him, flirty. he smiles back, flirty.

"zev? interesting name. —a bag, please. two. snowglobe and dancing shirt in one, the rest in mine." money exhanges. the cashier brushes her fingers against face's on purpose. he winks at her as he tells her, "thanks."