#going w sam's office/agency (: course hes just bsing but

[samuhelll]

@miidnighters (continued from here)

It’s a slow day in the agency. Rain slaps the window, the analog clock threatening to tick to 6:54pm, and Sam stays in his little carved-out section of the world: a chair with a half-touched glass of Tropicana on the table, Barty settling deeper into his seat, his long legs stretching out. Sam stretches his, too—he cannot concede and surrender—until there’s one foot between Barty’s ankles.

“Jackpot. Hey, well- in that case…” His voice rumbles, low. Sam sounds like a man with a plan. “I'd like a mask. Uh, you know, the one with those cucumbers over your eyes?" He draws a circle twice by his face. "And one of those seaweed wraps. And I mean full-body, egg-roll style. Make me feel snug. Then I’m thinking something for my nails," he smiles, crinkly. "French tips. Go figure.” There’s a box of pastries on the table, one a croissant.

Barty's here for his benefit? He's looking for merciless relaxation.