Breathless, Ami stared after Scott until the door closed behind him. Not at all offended that he'd raced for the door, a small part of her rather wished that he hadn't. (Relative stranger, relative stranger, relative stranger,) Ami reminded herself. She shook her head to clear it, then wished that she hadn't as it reminded her of her headache. After a moment of hesitating, Ami reached for Scott mentally, surprised again at how simple and natural it felt to do such a thing. It felt like walking, like it was something she'd been doing all her life.
/Scott, if it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, could you maybe see if there's some paracetamol available?/ Ami 'asked.'
/Some, uh, what?/
Ami smiled at his confusion. /Aspirin or something. I think you call it, um, acetaminophen?/
She felt Scott's smile. /Yeah, I can do that./
/Thank you,/ Ami said sincerely and broke contact.
Left alone, she took a few more sips from the water bottle. She looked again at the assortment of items Scott had already spread out before taking them and carefully moving them all to the dresser. Given the state of her head, she didn't attempt to do it telekinetically. That done, Ami dropped down to her knees and pulled out the two suitcases.
"I certainly don't believe in traveling light," Ami groused as she rummaged through the first one, which yielded nothing useful beyond an assortment of jeans, short trousers, t-shirts, halters and the odd jumper. Ten minutes later and the second suitcase later she'd shoved the two very skimpy negligees back into the back, along with more clothes, and came forth with the fruits of her own labor. Her pile spread out on the bed amounted to her passport, her journal and the photograph, a boarding pass for the same flight that Scott was on, a program for an anthropological conference in Los Angeles, two anthropology journals, a worn mystery novel, a CD labeled "dissertation research," a letter addressed to her at a mail stop in Indonesia, an Indonesian VISA, and an antique locket which had been wrapped in lingerie sack and neatly placed in the suitcase.
The passport told her what she'd already surmised given the number of languages she knew fluently: she was a traveler. It didn't answer the question as to when or how she met Scott, though. Flipping through revealed that it had been a good two years since she traveled to the States. According to her passport she was twenty-nine years old and British; the former was nice to know, the latter Ami had already figured out for herself.
"I'm an anthropologist," Ami mused. She flipped through the journals and decided that they were not relevant to the mystery of here and now. Ami placed the CD to the side with the journals, "I'm an anthropologist who is likely working on my doctorate." The program showed that she was scheduled to speak at the conference two days after the flight would have left Sydney.
Something clicked.
Ami reached for the passport again and flipped it to the most recent customs stamps. Scrambling off the bed, she snatched up Scott's boarding pass and passport and returned to her pile of "Ami Jackson's life." She compared the passports and the boarding passes, and then compared them again.
"We never made it." Ami looked at the documentation, feeling shock and surprise rock her. "We never made it to Los Angeles."
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timeasmymeasure
[Ami] Realizations
Date: 2007-02-25 06:19 pm (UTC)/Scott, if it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, could you maybe see if there's some paracetamol available?/ Ami 'asked.'
/Some, uh, what?/
Ami smiled at his confusion. /Aspirin or something. I think you call it, um, acetaminophen?/
She felt Scott's smile. /Yeah, I can do that./
/Thank you,/ Ami said sincerely and broke contact.
Left alone, she took a few more sips from the water bottle. She looked again at the assortment of items Scott had already spread out before taking them and carefully moving them all to the dresser. Given the state of her head, she didn't attempt to do it telekinetically. That done, Ami dropped down to her knees and pulled out the two suitcases.
"I certainly don't believe in traveling light," Ami groused as she rummaged through the first one, which yielded nothing useful beyond an assortment of jeans, short trousers, t-shirts, halters and the odd jumper. Ten minutes later and the second suitcase later she'd shoved the two very skimpy negligees back into the back, along with more clothes, and came forth with the fruits of her own labor. Her pile spread out on the bed amounted to her passport, her journal and the photograph, a boarding pass for the same flight that Scott was on, a program for an anthropological conference in Los Angeles, two anthropology journals, a worn mystery novel, a CD labeled "dissertation research," a letter addressed to her at a mail stop in Indonesia, an Indonesian VISA, and an antique locket which had been wrapped in lingerie sack and neatly placed in the suitcase.
The passport told her what she'd already surmised given the number of languages she knew fluently: she was a traveler. It didn't answer the question as to when or how she met Scott, though. Flipping through revealed that it had been a good two years since she traveled to the States. According to her passport she was twenty-nine years old and British; the former was nice to know, the latter Ami had already figured out for herself.
"I'm an anthropologist," Ami mused. She flipped through the journals and decided that they were not relevant to the mystery of here and now. Ami placed the CD to the side with the journals, "I'm an anthropologist who is likely working on my doctorate." The program showed that she was scheduled to speak at the conference two days after the flight would have left Sydney.
Something clicked.
Ami reached for the passport again and flipped it to the most recent customs stamps. Scrambling off the bed, she snatched up Scott's boarding pass and passport and returned to her pile of "Ami Jackson's life." She compared the passports and the boarding passes, and then compared them again.
"We never made it." Ami looked at the documentation, feeling shock and surprise rock her. "We never made it to Los Angeles."