eerieindiana | Eerie, Indiana: Leisurewear (Reply)

Marshall pushed open the connecting door that lead from the small, cluttered living room into the smaller, far more cluttered kitchen, and froze.

Piles of laundry, sorted roughly by colour and fabric type, lay in semi-neat heaps on the chipped tile floor. The air was thick with the warm, sweet scent of detergent and the mismatched mugs on the drying rack clattered to the twin rumbles of the washing machine and the tumble dryer.

"What," he whispered softly to himself, while his heart beat a staccato rhythm of shock and fear. Sensing movement behind him, he snatched up the squirt gun filled with holy water from it's usual place next to the sugar bowl. In deference to Simon's recently re-expanded policy about weapons at the dinner table, it was shaped like a monkey holding a flower rather than the more traditional plastic pistol. Nevertheless, it was accurate.

"What the hell, Teller!" Dash demanded, dropping the hamper full of suspect-smelling towels that Marshall guiltily recognised from forgotten corners of their perpetually damp bathroom.

"Who are you?" he demanded, firing a holy-water warning shot into the air for emphasis. "Where's the real Dash? What are you trying to pull?"

The deified droplets traced a glittering arc overhead, a few of them landing in Dash's bed-mussed grey hair. Marshall tensed, waiting for a reaction. None came.

Marshall narrowed his eyes.

"Not bad," he allowed. "But you don't fool me, imposter king. Too bad you wasted time making yourself immune to holy water and didn't do some basic research."

Dash rolled his eyes.

"Okay," he said, bending to retrieve the scattered towels. "You've decided to be weirder than usual today. That's fine. Don't you have work?"

"Don't you?" Marshall shot back.

Dash shook his head.

"Turns out, the Loyal Order has some pretty generous paid leave policies," he said. "I didn't even realise I'd been accruing time off until the Kernel told me I had to use it by the end of the year."

Marshall shot him with the monkey-gun again.

"Now I know you're lying," he said. "Dash would never do laundry anyway, but especially not on his day off."

"Or," said Dash, edging past him and opening the door of the tumble dryer, "I'm going to be home for the next ten days, and I need pyjama pants for lounging around in because I'm not planning on getting dressed or even leaving the apartment for anything except letting the pizza guy in."

The chemical-cotton smell of dryer sheets and warm fabric filled the room. Marshall watched as Dash discarded the tatty boxers he'd been wearing and slipped into a pair of blue flannel pants, humming in satisfaction.

"Ahh," he said, smirking. "Perfect for lazing in." He glanced up at the clock. "Shouldn't you get a move on?"

"I hate you," said Marshall.

Microwave-verse

Bonfire by