none of us are promised to see tomorrow

[betterthansubpoenas]

Who: Kalinda Sharma and others.
What: The (horribly belated) aftermath of the siege on the city.
Where: Various locales.
When: Various.
Notes: I'm kind of using this as my catch-all post for Kalinda. The timing encompasses the immediate aftermath of MONSTER RAIN up to times more recent. There will be individual threads for each character! Want to do something here? You need only ask.
Warnings: Standard warnings for the presence of Don Draper and Alan Shore.

It wasn't any easy half-month for anyone in the city. Kalinda isn't selfish enough to believe she was the only one effected (and affected) by the sky tearing open and horrors pouring out. That doesn't stop her from feeling alone in the aftermath, however, no matter how unjustified she knows that is. That she feels a little numb as well has nothing to do with the mild painkillers she's taking for the healing wound on her left arm.

If she were back home - never mind that there are no monsters on the Earth she comes from, so the whole scenario is completely null and void - she wouldn't have anyone to turn to, either. In that much, at least, her situation is consistent. Once, she might have been able to admit to Alicia that she actually thought she was going to die. That time had long past even before she was snatched up to join the population of the city, however. She wouldn't have been able to confide in Cary, either. He might have thought that was his opportunity, or even his cue, to take her into his arms and murmur something reassuring in her ear as if he could retroactively protect her from what had happened.

Heaven forbid.

Maybe things aren't so different here than they were there. The only thing to do is put on an impassive face, and move on with life. So far that's served her well. Pretend it didn't happen. It's amazing how often things never happened.

Comments

» Alan

[betterthansubpoenas]

It's a beautiful thing, the way that even when the city's been under such tremendous stress, that a person can still do things like get takeaway Chinese food. It's the little things, the simple pleasures, that help keep one grounded when everything's been turned on its head. Kalinda suspects, anyway, that this holds true for most people, that holding onto anything normal is a comfort.

The smell of fried rice and potstickers coming from the traditional white, wire-handled boxes is comforting in its own small way. It will have to do. Leather drapes over her left side, remaining unzipped with her right arm through the sleeve. It keeps out the chill, and hides the sling that holds her arm to her body, even if it doesn't make less obvious the injury.

Kalinda lets herself into the office. This, too, is rather routine. A late night, a late dinner. They both work too hard by other people's standards. Everybody does what they have to do. "Thought you might be hungry." Most other times, she just sets the food on the desk as if he'd asked her to pick up their take-out, and she was merely fulfilling the request. Sometimes, she even asks what he feels like eating. Not always.

She's subdued, though. There's no attempt at blitheness in her tone, no deception that everything is as it should be. Because she respects him.

» Don

[betterthansubpoenas]

He's had a headstart. That much is clear from the sound of his voice. Kalinda isn't sure how many martinis or shots of tequila she'd need to consume to catch up, but she's sure the answer is more than she's comfortable with. Even with him. Maybe especially, given the circumstances. But she'd promised she'd meet him wherever, whenever he was ready.

She's not going to the hotel to talk, so it doesn't matter if she can match his levels of inebriation or not. She suspects he'll be a gentleman and share whatever bottle he's drinking from when she arrives, however. Provided there's something left in it.

Kalinda never agonises about what to wear. Ever. Except tonight, and that's mostly because she has to wear something she doesn't need assistance getting into. Getting out of it won't be a problem, even if it generally is more difficult to remove her clothes with her arm like it is. Draper won't protest about having to help her out. Not unless he took a blow to the head.

Her blouse, chosen by virtue of it being sleeveless, and a deep red that she hopes isn't too evocative of the colour of blood, fastens around her neck with two dainty buttons. They were far more trouble to fasten than she'd care to admit, but simpler than if she'd had to tie a halter one-handed. Her wardrobe staple black pencil skirt rounds out the look nicely, in her opinion, matched with dark stockings and her signature knee-high boots. Leather jacket's been forsaken in favour of a longer, dark blue trench coat. It doesn't feel quite right, but she has her doubts that Don will care as much about it as she does.

Outside the door to his room, she takes a deep breath before she raises her good arm to rap sharply.

» Angela

[betterthansubpoenas]

It's been some time since the sky (and presumably reality) tore open. Everything's still being rebuilt - structures, lives - but as time marches on, so too do the people. There's always work to be done, and it keeps Kalinda sane. So do her connections with people, even if she won't quite call them friendships. Putting that label on it just destines for failure. Still, Angela is someone Kalinda enjoys spending time with. She doesn't take life too seriously; it's refreshing.

That said, as she sits at a small table in a small café mercifully spared the damage that some the building's neighbours received, she isn't there just for a social call. She's early, because sometimes she likes to be, with her CiD out in front of her, cup of coffee in one hand, left arm still cradled in a typical blue sling. Angela isn't just pleasant company, she's also smart, and can probably (hopefully) help her out with a little programming she'd like done.

But that can come later. First, they're going to share conversation, and if Kalinda has her say, pie.