Room 505, Laaaaaate Wednesday Night/Early Thursday Morning

[thismaskiwear]

It was not a morning in which waking up, much less getting out of bed, held any appeal whatsoever for Katchoo. Neither was about to happen at the moment, not when staying curled up with Francine was an option.

Which is what she was, lost in a pleasant sleepy haze completely free of dreams -- no clocks, no crazy cartoon versions of herself, no inexplicably hostile chipmunks, no fog, no storms in Hawaii. It was rare, and it was nice, and she was going to enjoy the hell out of it while it lasted.

[OOC: For that girl in bed with her, and NFB.]

Comments

[thismaskiwear.livejournal.com]

Katchoo muttered a string of something that could have been profanity, or could have been the list of ingredients off the back of a Twinkie wrapper. (Which, arguably, might be about the same thing.)

"If you're hauling me out of bed because you have a sudden craving for a turkey leg and a stick of butter . . ."

Sighing, she sat up and got out of bed, nearly faceplanting in the process due to sheer grogginess. "One of those dreams?"

[thatsamilkshake]

Francine paused to look over her shoulder as she slowly pulled on a pair of jeans, not bothering to change from the t-shirt she'd been sleeping in. "Still disgusting, still don't know why you think I would ever want to eat that, and.... I think so. Something about the guys."

[thismaskiwear.livejournal.com]

"That narrows it down so much." Katchoo wasn't actually complaining about that; the tone of her voice was more concerned than anything, and any irritation was courtesy of the leg of her pants that was still turned inside out while she tried to pull them on. She finally (an embarrassing number of minutes later, complete with falling over twice and a week's worth of cursing) jammed her foot through . . . the knee, in the process, but there.

"Shoes," she muttered, dropping to all fours to peer under the bed for wherever the hell she'd kicked them. "Stupid shoes."

Clocky wheeled up and beeped shrilly.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, you glorified circuitboard, geez!"

[thatsamilkshake]

"Katchoo, pan--" Francine looked up from the desk where she'd grabbed her phone, staring to punch numbers as she spoke. "...Oh. Good. You remembered. Good job."

[thismaskiwear.livejournal.com]

"Give me a gold star for -- quit it!" Katchoo snapped over Clocky's next set of beeps and from somewhere halfway under the bed; the little wheeled demon-thing was bumping into her feet, now. "-- for it later."

She squirmed back out from beneath the bed with one shoe triumphantly clutched in her hand and the other . . . nowhere in sight, at least from her vantage point.

Clocky made a raspberry-like noise and zipped toward the closet, beeping as if to say there, you idiot, nyeah to the shoe's twin, wedging the closet door (oy, closets) ajar.

Katchoo jammed her foot into the one shoe and shuffled over to retrieve and put on the other one. No point in bothering to fix her hair or anything.

"So help me, this had better be good."

In this case, 'good' was extremely relative.