(no subject)

"Deeeeeessssperado. Why don't you come to your senses?"

The Eagles song, by way of Clint Black, Johnny Cash and now Grace Hanadarko, bounces off cinderblock walls and swirls down the dim, nondescript stairwell, husky and full-bodied like a fancy stout.

"You've been out ridin' fences, for so long now. Oh, you're a hard one..."

Boots scuff the cement stairs in an impromptu dance.

"...but I know that you've got your reasons. These things that are pleasin' you can hurt you somehow."

Imbuing it with a healthy dose of sarcasm, Grace snorts at the line and pulls herself around a corner on the banister. The sign says she's reached Floor Two and a Half, which is remarkably unhelpful; especially as she thought she'd started going up. Sometimes getting lost is fun; sometimes it's a pain in the ass, like when you run out of beer and need to grab a cold one -- or six -- from Bar.

"Weird."

Shrugging, she leans against the landing wall and lights a cigarette.

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The light fixture here looks like it came out of a turn-of-the-century hotel, brass and crystal both grimy with age. It flickers, dims and than grows bright again, too bright for a moment before fading back.

When she looks back, she sees him sitting on the stairs. He's leaning back on his elbows, white shirt sleeves rolled up. He sports suspenders above black trousers, long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles.

It's a genteel look for him, but he's always had to adapt quickly to his surroundings. He is his own brand of time traveller, one might say. His boots are spotless. His long hair is slicked back and his eyes are hidden by dark blue glasses. Some things need not change.

"I have seen stranger things here -- than a floor between floors."

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