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Jun. 12th, 2007 10:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sunnydalealumThe Warehouse (Angel's HQ)
June 12, 2005
Someone knocks, and the door opens before the echo even fades, much less before a normal human could get across the room to answer it. "Packagefor MISTER CharlesGunnEsquire," the bike messenger says. Clearly he says that a lot, in the exact same lack of tone.
Gunn automatically scrawls the usual jumble of letters -- CHGUN, is what it more or less comes out to -- and is handing back the pen when the "Esquire" sinks in. He hasn't been Esquire since LA. Also, the messenger's helmet? Isn't. It's horns, curled back like a ram's, with a faux hawk down the middle. And the guy's tattoo is moving. Gunn isn't sure whether to be creeped or impressed or yeah.
Doesn't matter, he's already out the door as Gunn puts the envelope rip cord and pulls out a single sheet of expensive paper. There's a couple lines of type on it -- no signature, no salutation. He half-reads it in the couple seconds it takes to fold the thing up into a thick, tight rectangle.
"Anything interesting?" Angel asks, not looking up.
"Just junk mail." Gunn says, and jams it into his back pocket.
June 12, 2005
Someone knocks, and the door opens before the echo even fades, much less before a normal human could get across the room to answer it. "Packagefor MISTER CharlesGunnEsquire," the bike messenger says. Clearly he says that a lot, in the exact same lack of tone.
Gunn automatically scrawls the usual jumble of letters -- CHGUN, is what it more or less comes out to -- and is handing back the pen when the "Esquire" sinks in. He hasn't been Esquire since LA. Also, the messenger's helmet? Isn't. It's horns, curled back like a ram's, with a faux hawk down the middle. And the guy's tattoo is moving. Gunn isn't sure whether to be creeped or impressed or yeah.
Doesn't matter, he's already out the door as Gunn puts the envelope rip cord and pulls out a single sheet of expensive paper. There's a couple lines of type on it -- no signature, no salutation. He half-reads it in the couple seconds it takes to fold the thing up into a thick, tight rectangle.
"Anything interesting?" Angel asks, not looking up.
"Just junk mail." Gunn says, and jams it into his back pocket.
