Sitting on the sand is a box. What's in the box?

[shes_biochem]

Simmons has managed to find the most wonderful, impossible thing.

In the midst of everything happening back home that she's not even close to ready to cope with -- whatever is happening to Skye, what did happen to Tripp -- she'd decided that she needed time before her mental shields broke down and she cracked and had a nervous breakdown fit to rival the very worst. One day had turned to two and then somehow has drawn out to just over a week, but she feels better and relaxed and now she's standing outside of a very blue, very locked, very real seeming TARDIS that just happens to be parked in the lobby of the Nexus.

"Excuse me," she asks the concierge. "When did this arrive?"

They rattle off something about how they've never noticed it and isn't it funny that they have a police box and would Simmons like security called. She shakes her head urgently and turns her attention back to the TARDIS as her childish heart sings with excitement. She tries the door another three times, opens the phone, looks for a key (or better yet, the man who owns this box), but nothing seems to be working. It almost seems like it could be a prank. Surely the Doctor couldn't be real. Surely this isn't actually happening.

She drags one of the comfortable lobby chairs over to set up shop right outside of it, chin perched on her hand as she stares up at the TARDIS and wonders whether this is another of those things where reality and fiction manage to merge and mix, creating a result that gives her this. And of course, that cowardly part of her heart can't help but wonder if she can't break in and manage to steer her and all the people she cares about away from what's been happening.

"Brave heart, Jemma," she instructs herself, a sad smile on her lips as she crosses her legs in front of the TARDIS and waits for an owner or an explanation or anything in between.

"For my money, it was just average incompetence."

[thesouthernpansy]

May 20th | The Smoking Room

If there was one thing he and Crowley knew how to do, wherever they went, whenever they went, it was how to order a drink (and, often, accompanying appetizers). It was already pretty obvious that they had effectively walked out of their world, like a pair of actors trooping between the curtains offstage and accidentally ending up in a janitorial closet, and it was only the immortal wisdom of the ages that prevented a true panic from setting in.

After losing the Antichrist (well, actually, they lost it about eleven years ago and only just realized), getting shot with paintball guns by a squad of management trainees, and hypnotizing a former Satanic nun, Crowley and Aziraphale are left exactly where they started - which is to say, nowhere.

No Warnings | In Progress