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Arms Hotel Lobby, Tuesday

Jeff was a little bit nervous.

There was an art... thing opening up in town. That couldn't be good. His mind had conjured up several situations regarding it, and none of them ended well for him in any way, shape or form.

So he snuck into the hotel a little late, and then barricaded himself behind the desk with the specials board.

Welcome to the Arms Hotel!
Today's Specials:
Look behind you.

[ open ]

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If you can see him past the specials board.

Turtle came into the Arms today for a boyfriend, but she caught a look at the specials board well before she spotted him, and, eyes a little wide, she followed the instruction, almost half-worried about what she would find there.

She blinked.

"The special today is a potted plant?"

A head of hair popped out the side of the specials board.

"Gunther's experimenting," the hair provided, fueled by a combination of helplessness and warning.

There was a bit of a pause. Turtle glanced back toward the potted plant in question.

"...Seriously?"

"Don't use that tone if you're going to talk about it," the head of hair whimpered, before it dragged Jeff into sight with it. "He gets a bit cross."

"That man," Turtle started, in her usual bold tone but, blinking and considering the whimpering hair, she sighed extravagantly and leaned forward toward the desk a little. Her voice dropped to a loud whisper. "That man," she told Jeff, with the ensured secrecy of a lowered voice, "is off his German rocker, he really is."

Jeff's elbows (and the rest of his forearms, really) hit the desk with a slight (if, in his opinion, stealthy) thud, offering Jeff's head (and hair, of course) the opportunity to lean a little towards Turtle, too.

"I thought it was the beret thing again, at first," he said, copying the secret voice quite admirably, "But I think he's serious."

Turtle rather liked the secret voice; it made her feel kind of important. It reminded her of skulking around Chicago for tips and information.

"I don't suspect it would taste very good," Turtle whispered. "A little gritty. And kind of green."

"It looks like it."

Jeff stole a paranoid look at the plant. Between this and the art thing...

"D'you think I might get allergies?"

"Well," Turtle said, glancing over her shoulder for her own considering glance toward the plan, "I have to be honest with you, Jeff, because I love you and all that, so I can't say that it isn't a possibility. It might be. I can, however, assure that I think it's a pretty small percentage, unless there's something nefarious involved, in which case, the moment you start sensing an allergy, we should go see Agent Cooper for an investigation on..."

She straightened up, looking oh-so-subtly about the lobby to make sure that, even in the whisper, the chef in question could not here, before she ducked down again to whisper, "him."

"I always get hit by the small percentages," Jeff said, mournfully, and let his arms slide a little further over the desk, so he could attempt a decent slump while he was at it. "I think he's got it in for me, Turtle, even after I gave him the cigar and all..."

Pause.

"...then again, Miss Breasts doesn't like smoking."

"Mary," Turtle corrected firmly, not about to let Jeff slip into that habit, but she did give his head a light, sympathetic patting. "Her name is Mary. And, you know, Jeff, you really should be keeping a record of any of the incidents that might suggest that Gunther has, quote, 'got it in for you,' end quote. That way, if it gets too out of line, we have plenty to build a good case out of."

"I tried," Jeff said, sagging a little more at the patting.

It was a relaxed kind of sagging. Sort of. Also, it brought him a little closer to Turtle's chest, which he was all right with. "Nana ate it."

And Turtle was all right with the convenient placement of the sagging, but that was only because she was completely unaware of it. Her patting did shift a little to just playing with his hair a little bit. It had developed into a bit of a habit. "That stupid dog," she muttered, although it lacked in the usual ferocity. It was hard to be ferocious when she was playing with Jeff's hair. "Maybe you should record them with a tape recorder instead, then, instead of on paper, like Agent Cooper does. Nana wouldn't eat..."

She paused. "Aw, crap. She probably would eat a tape recorder too, wouldn't she?"

"I don't know," Jeff said, truthfully, and peeked open one eye to check-- yes. Nice. "I haven't tried."

He was struggling to regain his track of thought, there. What were they talking about-- "Maybe she's allergic."

"To the plant?" asked Turtle, tilting her unaware head. "Or to recording equipment?"

"Recording equipment," Jeff replied, and his other eye opened the first in its open status. "I haven't tried it."

Turtle glanced over her shoulder again, contemplatively, this time towards the Saint Bernard rather than the plant, and considered, her forehead creased in thought.

"I could run to the store," she offered. "Bring some over and we could find out?"

Just for about five seconds, Jeff let his attention slip to the dog on the floor a few feet away. It wasn't a moment that lasted long, because Turtle was there, and he was grinning kind of idiotically into the desk now, although that wasn't showing, either. "Okay," he said, into the desk, "That might be good. Yeah."

Turtle thought about the experiment a bit longer, still looking at Nana and the glassy-eyed look that suggested she was putting all of her attention into the string of drool drooping from her chin, before she nodded. "Okay," she said, nodding again. "I'll be right back then with some recording equipment and we'll see if she's allergic. If anything, we might also find out that maybe she doesn't have an interest in electronics at all. It could be entirely possible that she likes softer, more natural materials to eat, like paper and clothes are."

"Okay," Jeff repeated.

His vocabulary was screaming in terror somewhere in the back of his mind, but then it often did.

"...bring me a Squishie?" he added, a few seconds later, "You know, when you're at the store and everything, there's the Squishie bot, it sort of demands Squishies, doesn't it?"

He was really proud of himself for not asking for any sleeves.

...

Sleeves might work nicely into a good word for breasts.

"Sure," Turtle said, grinning at the request. "Any particular flavor?"

She figured it would be a safe question to ask; since she was the boss, even if Jeff asked for a flavor they weren't serving that day, she could make them serve it. In fact, she almost wished that that could happen, because then she'd get to exert power, and that was always fun.

"Er..."

And now Jeff's gaze was hitting a distinct level of desk. Huh. Wood. "...d'you have the good red now?"

He still remembered the bad. He wished he didn't.

Turtle's head bobbed in a nod. "Yup. All the Red is good now."

Jeff tried to nod in response, too, but instead just sort of rubbed his forehead against the desk.

Ow.

Was that a splinter?

"One of those, then."

Turtle nodded again, although her head gained a bit of a tilt at the forehead rubbing. Jeff was...so weird sometimes, but she was used to it, and just accepted it. He had a tendency to get weirder than usual when he was at work, too, so she just shrugged it off. "Okay. Back in a bit."

With that, Turtle slipped out of the hotel, only to return about an hour later with a bag of sundries and two Red Squishies. She would have been back earlier, but there was paperwork. She got a bit distracted. She set the Squishes on the desk and then, leaning her hip against it, she started shifting through the bag. "I picked up some sandwiches, too, just in case you got hungry, Jeff, and, of course, a couple of recording devices. A couple, just in case, you know, she's only allergic to certain kinds."

"We should probably test them," Jeff offered, who, over the space of the hour, had managed to end his faceplant, shove the specials board partly aside, and was now sort-of sitting up in his chair.

And grinning. At Turtle. A lot.

"You brought sandwiches. Is there any jam?"

"Um, no," Turtle said, frowning a little at the sandwiches she was pulling out of the bag, wishing she had gotten jam. "They're roast beef. Is that okay?"

"I can live with roast beef," Jeff replied, with verve, and extended a grabby hand. For the sandwich. Not anywhere good. "It's very... roast... beefy, isn't it? Doesn't have all the big blobs."

"Big blobs?" Turtle asked, before, blinking, realizing that there was a better way of handling this question.

"They're sandwiches from the store, Jeff. They're nothing but the highest quality, guaranteed."

"And the Squishie?"

He might've looked a little expectant, at that. The question certainly got a lot more hopeful near the end. He'd seen a Squishie. The Squishie.

She's holding it, Jeffrey.

Oh. Right.

Turtle rolled her eyes, sending the Squishy closer to Jeff. What a dork. But a cute one.

"Red, just like you asked for."

"Excellent," Jeff grinned, "Best girlfriend ever!"

It was a fact he'd established many times, yes, but sometimes, it just need to be reestablished. Possibly a lot. He took enthusiastically to the Squishy, sipping it with all his...

Well, Jeffly might.

"So how's your day been?"

"Well," Turtle said, with a serious, conversational tone as she started unwrapping the cellophane off of her sandwich, "all I've really done today was come visit you, so I'd say it's been pretty good, on the whole. Yours?"

There's a dog and some staff who'd love to accommodate.

And I end this note on a well and true fwumph.

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Arms Hotel Lobby, Tuesday

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Avoid Jeff

OOC