2010-08-11: Playing House



Date: August 11. 2010


Fun times~

"Playing House"

Sydney and Lizzie's Townhouse

A small transformation has affected the brownstone residence belonging to Sydney Falkland this afternoon — most of it credited to drapes that have been flung open from their usual drearily closed state, and tied in that position conveniently higher than the fairly height-challenged therapist can reach. The culprit of this sunlight home invasion has not fled the premises but, in fact, made himself quite comfortable in the kitchenette area. For several minutes now, the aroma of tomatoes and seasoning has taken over, aided by the warmth of the ready oven.

Opposite the steadily heating appliance, Laurie leans into the counter, his stance a relaxed spread from the island and his elbows planted on the surface to keep him there. His hands are occupied in the task of giving expert but leisurely looking cuts through a section of baguette, then placing the prepared slice onto a baking sheet waiting to his left. Other evidence of cooking taking place is set about the kitchen where it will fit, precisely placed to the one who put them there, if not necessarily to the curious eye of the observer.

The consultant, himself, hovers on the nice side of casual in appearance: grey slacks, a collared shirt not buttoned to its highest, with the sleeves also rolled tightly out of the way of his steady baguette-slicing. Concentrated only on this, his eyes down on his work, with lips pressed together not in exact focus but with the light humming he emits that sometimes becomes vague words — something easy-going. Rock of the classic variety.

A more thorough study would show the kitchen to not be the only room affected — a few items, a bucket here or there — are outside. In the living room, laid out on an end-table, are paint samples: several colors in a wide, but generally warm, range.

Dressed down, like she has been for the last couple of months, Lizzie slams the door to her room before hopping onto the bannister and sliding down to the main floor. Her short cut offs, plain white t-shirt, twin braids, and bare feet make her look like she took a page out of the Ellie-May Clampett book of fashion. No, it's just a typical day for an unemployed little bum that's living off someone else's dime.

When she lands, she spins around in a circle, raising her arms and whisper cheering herself as she takes a bow for the perfect dismount and landing. "And a three from the Russian judge," she announces, with a convincing British accent, to the empty room. "The crowd is displeased with the ruling. I say James, it'll be a rainy day in Bristo— " Rounding the corner into the kitchen, she sees Laurence and stops midsentence and dead in her tracks.

"AAAAAAAHHH!!!" She hollars, looking a little terrified to see a man with a knife standing the middle of the kitchen. "AAAAAAAAHH!!!" Grabbing a spare cookie sheet, she raises it like a weapon to defend herself. "AAAAAAAAAHHH!!! STRANGER DANGER!! STRANGER DANGER!!" She rushes toward him with the cookie sheet over her head, apparently intent on defending the house from the baguette slicing villain.

Not far from the pain samples the blonde therapist is actually looking out the front window, still not entirely comfortable with the natural light, she's making slow and steady progress. In a pair of black capris and a loose fitting cotton t-shirt, she almost feels cold. Such few layers almost gives her a chill, especially after insisting on wearing so many for so long. Decidedly, after staring out the window a few more seconds, she slides the drapes closed.

With a sigh, she turns back to the paint samples after pressing her lips together. Her eyes glance over them, pondering something, but her thoughts are rather loudly interrupted by yelling. Very loud yelling.

Sydney's lips part as she rounds the corner to the kitchen, "LIZZIE, NOoooooOOoo!" She'd neglected to tell Lizzie that Laurie would be around. Oops.

The first, sharp reaction is for the initial yelling, both his posture and his grip on the knife tightening in an instinctual, natural way. But Laurie reacts somewhat backwards, as the vision of a screaming woman running at him wielding a kitchen instrument is — well, familiar in a way — but also relaxing to his state of mind. Rising to meet the challenge of this announced danger, the knife is set aside near his own tray, hand swiping nearby just as Lizzie comes forward.

His arm is raised against the cookie sheet, but with fingers spread, and palm ready to catch most of any potential swing. Meanwhile, the other arm comes around from sliding off the counter and, in a smooth pivot-turn, he's facing Lizzie — and plugging that yelling mouth with bruschetta — not so forcefully as to choke her, but only to distract with finely prepared tomato-bread.


The sound of the cookie sheet landing against Laurence's flat palm doesn't quite have the desired effect, or the satisfaction that it might have had if Lizzie wasn't standing wide eyed with a piece of tomato covered bread half sticking out of her mouth. Very slowly, the cookie sheet comes down and is placed with a clatter onto the island next to the other one. Then, before it can fall from being bitten in half, Lizzie's hand comes up to catch it.

She stays quiet for only as long as it takes to chew the mouthful into a manageable bite and then swallows with a pained look. "So… You're…." Her blue eyes flit to Sydney who is careening around the corner, doing her own yelling, then back up to the stranger. "Some kind of bruscetta makiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnng … " The word is drawn out as the young blonde attempts to find exactly the right word to use. With a blink, she stops and looks up at Laurence, then to Sydney and then she gasps. "Sydney! Is this your dad?!"

A smile edges Sydney's lips at the bruschetta-stuffed Lizzie in fact, it's enough of a spectacle that she stifles a quiet snicker, the first in some time to escape. "Uh… no…" her dark eyes narrow substantially as the smile disappears as quickly as it'd come. "I… don't— " shaking her head, she clamps her mouth shut, deciding not to finish her thought and redirecting the response, "This is Laurence Miles. He's… a friend."

The blonde therapist then gestures towards Lizzie, "This is my roommate and… assistant(?)" it's a question more than a statement, "… actually more like helper while I regain my sea legs, Lizzie Valois."
Laurie does absolutely nothing to hide the sound of his own good-natured laughter at the question as he slides a step towards the counter again, at first affecting a side-lean similar to the one before, his hands clasped in front of him and head tilted around Lizzie in order to see where Sydney stands. Introduced, the consultant shifts the angle of his balance in order to offer a hand to Lizzie, after brushing it clean on a hanging towel by his side. "Laurie," is the corrected version of himself, then, "Lizzie, I'm positively charmed."

His grip is friendly — and firm enough that, when hers is secured, he manipulates the common shake into giving Lizzie a ballroom twirl that deftly spins her, and also puts her right up at the counter in front of the display of prepared bruschetta, from which Lizzie's sample was taken. The hand, parted from hers, is slapped down enthusiastically against the edge of the island. "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind giving your obviously expert helper's opinion on the appetizer?"

"Uh.. Hi LaurieeeeEEeeEEOOOooooop!" Lizzie squeals as she's whirled around and released right in front of the counter. Wavering a little in dizziness, she gives the man yet another stunned look before tilting her hed down to examine the tray. For perhaps only the third or fourth time in her entire life, the young woman is struck absolutely speechless. A dumbfounded expression is graced upon Sydney before she cracks a tentative smile, the large blue orbs being the only part of her that actually moves as they drift in a triangular pattern between the bread, Sydney, and Laurie.

"It's good," she finally manages. The small smile breaks into a wide grin that causes little crinkles to appear at the corners of her eyes. "So, are you guys on a date or something? Do I need to clear out?" Her voice is a little shakey, as though it's the last thing in the world that she actually wants. "I mean, I could probably find something to do. There's this guy…" Her voice drifts off, uncertain of exactly what to say next.

Sydney further ventures into the kitchen before leaning against the other side of the island, towards the pair, an odd glimmer reflecting in her eyes. Silently she watches the twirl and then the bruschetta, almost a little wary, but she fights against it, her better self pushed forward a little more. "Laurie? Really? Why didn't you correct me sooner?" Absently, she chews her bottom lip before shifting her weight and pushing away from it.

The questions, however, draw reddened cheeks, and a forced, quirked smile. "You're welcome to stay." The tone is neutral, even if her features aren't as she turns away from the pair, "Laurie is helping do some things around here. In exchange for soup and pie. Turns out he's a bit of a pie whore." Vaguely she glances at the walls. "Making dinner was solely his idea though." Pause. "But it smells good."

"It's good!" The merry chef repeats, only half saturated in the debatable triumph of Lizzie's descriptor, "Well, now, at least, I have something to aspire to. And that is how I make my life fulfilling." Fingers creep across the counter towards the knife he'd been using, but he glances at the previously screaming young woman before at all claiming the utensil, "Do you mind if I…?" Managing to be also only half teasing, the sentiment is followed by a more sincere one, "Of course stay. 'Could', 'probably' and 'something' can wait. They sounded shifty anyway."

After a second to regain control of the food there, the consultant glances with lazy eyes up and over to Sydney, his head remaining angled slightly down. "Correct you, therapist? It is my name. And, anyhow, I introduced myself to you as Laurie, but you later demoted me to Miles, and I figured I had to work my way back up, to which purpose I have been slaving away diligently ever since."

Smiling at the emphasis around his nickname, the expression only softens a bit oddly at the second title he earns. Mouth twisting down in mock uncertainty he tests it in silent mouthing: whore. Then — shrugs, and spins to address the oven.

Catching Laurie's aside, a long snort comes from Lizzie as she attempts to keep the peal of raucous laughter that's threatening to burst from her in check. One of her skinny arms tucks down and across her waist to grip at her side as she staggers from behind the counter and toward the refrigerator. "Oh man? .. Hee~.." She can't help but let one or two little giggles loose as she tries to speak. "Hee~ Hee~" The near musical tones interrupt her train of thought until she brings a hand up to her mouth and rubs her face furiously to wipe away the smile.

When it's pulled away, a comicly serious expression remains and with the garrumph of her clearing throat, she tries again. "Okay… Siiiince you're the handyman…" She glances sheepishly toward Sydney for a brief respite before focusing on the man of the house once again. "Do you think you can hang some new curtains in my room? I'm not tall enough."
"Did you?" Sydney asks skeptically at the nickname. "I don't think so. I would've remembered that." Or she was too distracted by the simmering rage and the way it operated on Alexandra to remember. Tremors in pubs clear the rest of her thoughts. Hands are shoved into the back pockets of her capris as she turns back to the island.

"Also. You can call me Sydney. Just saying." Her wariness drifts further away; all of this just seems so normal almost easy. When Lizzie glances sheepishly at her, Syd's face reddens further, the blush extending through the contours of her face before she turns to face the wall, placing a hand on it, and pushing her thoughts to paint, "Maybe reddish…" Her palm touches its surface before her face very quickly begins to pale and she shudders. "…or not," she murmurs seconds later.

There's the faint strain of the oven door opening and closing between Lizzie's giggles, releasing further teasing scents of sausage and broth, garlics. "I~," Laurie draws out the word in playful enunciation, emphasized by his brief distraction eyeing his charge inside the oven. "Did." Squeak, closed. "Laurie, first name, no mister." His hands brush against the also towel hanging off the oven door and then he glances over at Sydney, "You expressed gladness that I wasn't completely delusional, I called you 'Sydney'," a pointed nod, "and you became defensive." Despite the animated head gesture, there is a distinct lack of judgment in his tone; these are only the facts of the situation as they are remembered.

As to Lizzie, he catches her eye with a twinkle in his own to match a bright and encouraging grin. "That is something I can absolutely do, Lizzie. And I will. As for the wall," his raised arm and point in that direction is for Liz's benefit, as Sydney is already looking, "Home and Garden Publications tells us that cool colors like green and blue are good for places where you want to relax. Warm colors like red and yellow are better for areas where lively activities take place. Orange is the most common accent color, considered widely to be the accent color. Though I'd favor a good green, I'd think, I'm a little biased. Lizzie," a chance picked up spoon is waved at her, the other hand having found position on his hip, "What color shall be for your curtains?"

When the scent wisps out of the oven, Lizzie is momentarily distracted from the fridge by it. She leans toward the smell in an attempt to get a view of what the man is hiding in there but the door is snapped shut before she can take a peek. The little blonde's face scrunches in a tiny bit of a grimace as she's shut out from her investigation. The moment Laurie's back is turned toward Sydney, the oven door is pried open, just a little crack. Again, before she can take a look, he's rivetted back to her, this time with questions.

The door is released and with a little bang shuts back into place. The offending hands that braved the attempt are popped behind Lizzie's back and she looks up at him with a most innocent expression. "Uhm.. uh…" Her eys shift, like a child that's been caught with its hand in the cookie jar. "Sage…. and purple for the walls! And I want gold everywhere!!" That last word is expressed with an arm spread twirl before she stops and smiles back up at him.

"I don't remember th— " until she does. The glimmer of recognition peeks through her eyes with a twitch of a smile. "Ooooh. Yeah. Now I kiiiiind of remember. I'd just been mugged in the park and there was a strange vigilante and like an earthquake… annnnd …" the story sounds crazy even now, but a knowing glance is shot towards Lizzie before she glances back at Laurie, "You can call me Sydney now though. If you want. Unless you prefer therapist." Pause. "Maybe green. I could use… less stimulation. Nothing dark. I find blue overused in kitchens so it's really not an option."

Hands are returned to her back pockets as she turns around, and, Lizzie is shot a wry smile for getting her hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. Not that Sydney can blame her cohort. The contents of the oven have piqued her interests as well. "So what are you making, Laurie?" his proffered name used more for Sydney's benefit than anyone else's.

That smile of Laurie's breaks upwards in the smugness of knowing, of Lizzie giving herself away through behavior alone. A lone, disciplining finger rises for her, rocking evenly back and forth in obvious telling: ah ah ah. "Naughty, naughty," the consultant berates, though in vague name only, all of the actual scolding taken out beforehand.

Distraction in the form of colors gets another kind of grin that roves into returning enthusiasm. "Purple and gold! Fantastic. We're decorating a throne room." And he begins to execute what was probably going to be a bow, but only gets so far as the flourishing hand motion to introduce it, before he's made to acknowledge Sydney.

Blue eyes roll from one curious blonde to the other, his mouth narrowing for the conspiracy this obviously is. Both hands having found home at his hips, he tips backwards onto his heels briefly before taking a territorial step towards that coveted oven door. "Dinner, Sydney. I'm making dinner." A not serious answer said so seriously that it comes around full circle to not.

"No," Lizzie interjects at Laurie's description, her expression fading from a smile to one a little more concerned. "No, we're decorating my room," she clarifies, her head jerking into a nod to emphasize the fact. Her eyebrows turn up a little at the inner edges and a tiny little line forms across her forehead as they raise in worry. "I don't want the bathroom to look like my room. We have to decorate that something different."

A quick glance is shot in Sydney's direction to silently confirm or maybe plead that the wash room won't be in same color scheme. Then she edges a little closer to the taller blonde, "We can do the bathroom a different color, okay? Like… why not a sandy color or something… or camel?" A wide smile spreads across her face, nearly splitting her from ear to ear. She's trying to look convincingly excited about a camel colored bathroom.

Between Laurie's too-obvious answer and Lizzie's misunderstanding, Sydney can't find words. The glance Lizzie shoots towards her is met with a vague curl of her lips, forced downwards for posterity's sake. They curl again. She fights them again. Her shoulder tense as she tries to freeze her muscles as best she can. She holds her breath, only to have it erupt out in a laugh before a single hand can clamp over her lips, hiding it behind a thin fan of fingers.

She turns on her heel to hide this odd delight built up inside of her, her face reddened with a very different emotion than she's wore lately. But once she starts, the blonde therapist can't stop. In fact, her shoulders bob as she fights against the quite chortle she tries to suppress for her roommate's sake. After taking a deep calming breath, and pressing the giggles out of herself, she turns back to face the pair. A single finger is drawn to her eyes removing the minute moisture accumulated. She hasn't really laughed for a long while. It's simultaneously a relieving and frightening sound.

"Ahem," Sydney clears her throat as she strains to neutralize her face to be diplomatic. Finally quipping, "Maybe… Cerulean for the bathroom? We could make it like a by-the-beach kind of getaway…"

"Azure," is Laurie's quick and confident suggestion, following a really rather pleased expression that surfaced when Lizzie's mistake came to light. There's a further shine of it in his eyes, around every curve of that lightly upturned mouth when the sound of laughter takes over the room even better than the scents from the oven. His own chuckle is a rumble of a noise in comparison, low and unobtrusive. Since the oven's no longer being threatened by womanly wiles, he stays placed somewhere in the center of the kitchen, wielding that large serving spoon as though he's forgotten it's there and the utensil has since become an extension of his own arm.

"As for you," spoon-arm bobs at Lizzie, "Purple is associated with royalty and luxury. Gold, more so. In fact, if you were born in a purple room in the Byzantine Empire, that'd make you a dynastic empress. So, you see, the throne room of a king and queen, not a sideways reference to the toiletries closet. Or in your case," his gaze, having wandered, lazily finds her, "A room for a princess, princess."

Thus sums up the lesson for today, signaling a more purposeful glance to the bruschetta, some other stacked ingredients over the opposite shoulder. One hand gives Laurie's goatee an absent rub. "Don't you ladies have something better to do than hang out with the help?"

Laurie gains one very sincere smile from the younger of the condo's occupants. "I am a princess," she says proudly, her voice taking on an air of upper crust conceit. She picks up a magazine from the counter and rolls up into her hand for later browsing when the spoon almost taps her nose. Holding up both of her hands in surrender, Lizzie backs away from the spoon wielding man. "Okay okay! I guess I could go clean my room…" A guilty glance is passed toward Sydney before she lifts the corners of her lips in a small apologetic smile. "It— I— Yeah. I should go clean my room." She wheels back to the fridge and grabs a bottle of Perrier from inside of it before slipping around the corner to eavesdrop.

It's quite possible that Sydney and Laurie can both hear her little snicker as the young woman believes that she's being sneaky. Every so often her blonde head peeks into view and pops back lest she be spotted.

"Azure is nice," Sydney agrees quietly having subdued her giggles for the time being. Content with Lizzie's response and Laurie's grace at the matter she hmmms. "I should… rehang some drapes out front or something." Drapes she'd pulled down in her random fit of rage not long ago. Yet she doesn't move yet, instead she lingers in the kitchen, craning her neck towards the oven.

"You know… with your… role(?) the last few months, I never would've pegged you as a foodie," her lips twitch into a faint smile, the idea of a cooking Laurie almost reassuring compared to the scary rugged image that was Roscoe.

After the departing Lizzie is where Laurie's gaze goes, a sideways but still focused following until she disappears — from sight. Eyebrows raising, one after the other, he asides — a touch louder than normal, "Alone at last." But the amusement in this observation fades into polite listening when Sydney starts up. He looks around each of his moves setting dishes here and there in preparation, conveniently turned away when it would be time to speak.

Here, to the privacy of his expressions hidden by the turn of his own body, he lets teeth slide against lip. Hands rub together and then roughly against the front of his pants, passing along fragments of cooking to those nice slacks not even so different from those of his 'other role'.

The attempt is for humor and, after a second, he's got it where he wants it. Only Sydney might be privy to the twinge of falseness in the merry way he decides, "I guess I'm not him."

Quietly, Sydney studies him with every movement, an odd skepticism lifting her eyebrows, pulling at her lips, and wrinkling her nose. And while the attempt at humour isn't completely lost on the therapist, concern wears on her face, even with the too-forced semi-polite smile she pastes across it. She begins pivot on her heel before she observes, "I was wrong about you." It's a quiet observation, an apologetic undertone enters the words.

Turning back to face him, her head tilts, "You're not who I thought you were. And no matter what anyone says, you're not some thug. You're good people, Laurie." Plain and simple. There's no changing her opinion on the matter.

"I trust my gut more often than I should. The initial feeling just happened to be wrong about you." Pause. "I'm sorry."

The activity that Laurie has assumed at the sink keeps him looking away from, with only absently moved but precisely timed glances to keep up the talk between them pleasantly. On a look, "Don't lie now, therapist," and then away to soft flow of water where his hands work underneath, "I was being a calculated ass to you." Unmarred merriment — not even by any brand of his own apology. Fact is the fact; this fact also happens to amuse him.

There's a low hum as she continues, from his gut, much like his chuckling but now just one note, tolerating but giving no allowance to the words being spoken. It's only not a lofty dismissal because it's too uncaring to be that pompous. But that doesn't deny that his smile is sweet when he gives it to her with another timed glance over his shoulder. A vague, almost unspoken gratitude. Even though he speaks: "Well, thank you for saying so." But.

It's nearly audible not from any tick of his, but the solid base of paved disbelief inside. Yet he sounded as sincere just then as he does now sound cheery, "I just hope your gut and you agree when it comes to dinner. I may not look like much of a foodie, but I do take some pride in it when the inclination hits."

"Ha! So you didn't like me from the start! That's just plain prejudice." The admission is met with a faint tsk. "And I only came out as acceptable. It's disappointing, actually. I try so hard to stand out in the crowd and to be nothing more than acceptable. I mean… if a person can't be famous, they should at least be infamous — " Sydney's lips strain into a tight smile as she hugs her arms around herself, craning her neck again to see the food.

"It looks good. And Lizzie seemed to like what she ate so…" There's a small pause before she adds. "…and Italian's my favourite…" her eyes narrow calculatingly. "You couldn't have known that…"

At some point during their little time alone, Lizzie had actually slipped away and went somewhere else. Not that their conversation was boring (cough), she just had somewhere else to be. The stomping of bare feet up the bare wooden stairs, she'd been exploring the 'Man Cave'. "Hey Sydney, did you know that you had a real dick licing downstairs? There's pictures of nude women ALL OVER."

The young woman rounds the corner with a freezie pop in one hand and some kind of comic book in the other. It looks really old, too old to be out of a plastic sleeve. Comic lovers everywhere might die if they saw her dog earing the pages and dripping some of her frozen orange treat all over the pages. "Also, some geek left a bunch of these down there. Can you believe that they drew women with such huge boobs? How do they fit into clothes? Everyone knows that you can't wear good clothes if you have huge boobs."

"If everyone in the world were famous or infamous, there'd be no acceptable people left to fill their normal lives talking about them. And, then, really… that's not famous at all, is it." It's the same pleasant and uncompetitively contradicting that got him into trouble at the bar that first fateful meeting, but Laurie wields it even so without hesitation. At the statement cutting it close to accusation, Sydney is given a glance. A smile.

And then a redirecting turn of the head at Lizzie's timely entrance. Staring blandly — understated curiosity — at the other blond woman, he waits out her words and then leans over in Sydney's direction for a lower, shared, "Everyone," before that airy but factual tone is directed to the comic book ruiner, "They fit very tightly, if I recall comic books with any sort of accuracy."

Splash splash. Then he's done with whatever was going on in the sink — cleaning dishes he was finished with, it turns out — and he ambles to the counter he started at to finish distributing the last of the tomato mixture onto the remaining bread slices.

Opening her mouth to object, Sydney shakes her head, a wistful glimmer persists in her eyes, but she doesn't comment. One lesson she learned a la Roberto? How to hold her tongue.

And then, perfectly timed, Lizzie reenters the room. A blank stare is issued to Lizzie's comment. "What? I wouldn — oooooh," rolling her eyes at her lack of memory and her random avoidance of the space up until now, she clucks her tongue, "Riiiiight. I gave the basement to Chi and named it the man cave, vowing never to enter it again. Uh… maybe we should just burn it down and start over?"

An eyebrow is arched at the comic book, however. "I'm pretty sure those are worth something. I mean someone out there would pay money for it still. There are like avid collectors… in fact, I'm betting Eric would scold you for doing that — " Irony considering he bought the house.

Looking up from the comic to Sydney, Lizzie gives a long sluuuuuuuuuuurp of her orange freezie and graces the therapist with the most unimpressed of expressions ever. This action figure comes complete with raised eyebrows that practically scream 'are you kidding me?' Sucking the last of it out with a quiet little slisssk slisssk slisssk, she closes the empty wrapped between the pages as a placeholder.

"Sydney." The name is a sentence all on its own when it's spoken in that tone, like an adult trying to explain why the burner is hot to a two year old. "It's a comic book." That is really all the explanation needed as to why the little 'graphic novel' isn't valuable, at least in Lizzie's mind. She tosses the little book next to the sink where Laurie had just finished splashing. The dry pages make for wonderful blotter paper, since they soak up every stray droplet around the sink is record time. "Not only is it a comic book, it's a comic book from the fifties and the women are wearing clothing that were unfashionable then."

Since it happens the closest to him, after an initial turn to see the action, Laurie then spins leisurely away from the just finishing touches on the bruschetta to pluck up the tossed and absorbent comic book by its unstapled edge. As he tips it over to another angle, the freezie wrapper falls out and is caught by the other hand, crinkling the plastic to store in his palm until such time as he reaches the garbage.

While there is no initial apparent steps taken to save the comic further, he brusquely bobs his chin in Lizzie's direction with his hands occupied by her disregarded leftovers. "Princess. Clean your room," his head dips along his shoulder to find Sydney, "Therapist. Hang the drapes. When dinner's ready you'll know."

The comic book is given a little shake, held possibly out to be taken but otherwise just sort of eyed as he makes aims to return oven-side. "Or I'll shout very loudly for you."

Sydney just gapes at Lizzie and the ridiculously old comic that was probably worth a pretty penny. Where it came from? The therapist will never know, but presumably from one of the roommates that wasn't. But the words bring her back to life, causing her to turn on her heel again. "Right. Drapes. Must have them up." Lest there be a drive by — not these are common in this end of the city. The consequences of rage are annoying, but need to be dealt with.

With that, she retreats back into the living room, presumably to fix the drapes to their spot on the wall.

A blank stare is given to Laurie at first as he shakes out the comic book. For some reason, Lizzie just doesn't understand what he's trying to do and she tilts her head to the side, somewhat confusedly. "I— Okay?" Taking both the comic and the plastic wrapper, she opens the cupboard door under the sink and tosses both of them into the garbage. Immediately afterward, she kicks the door closed and washes her hands in the sink above, she did just touch garbage. Then, she looks up at the chef with one of those proud 'I did good?' smiles.

"Clean room, got it…" The blonde patters off, past the bruscetta (snagging one of them on the way) and then past Sydney. The therapist is given a wink and a thumbs up that's hidden from their guest, at least Lizzie hopes. With that, she hops up the stairs to tidy up before she's called down again.

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