the only line that is true is the line you're from

[selfmadman]

Who: Don Draper and Pepper Potts
What: Not quite business as usual.
Where: Don's office/apartment, Sunter
When: After the distribution of lottery spoils (so BACKDATED).
Warnings: The map is not the territory.

Donald Draper, is what the envelope has to say. Nothing else. He flips it on its back, slits it open. Stops putting off pouring a drink.

Baedal traced in different hands. Lines that surge bold through Howl Barrow drain by Chimer into scratches; alleys and groves detailed as flourishes, scribbles, amputee triangles. The fog dissipated, no longer a malevolent swirl.

He folds it up, hands working quick and sloppy. It has the feel of paper but more elasticity, gives like whatever's caving in his chest.

He goes to find a steering wheel to spread the map over. The door slams after him.

Night's descending when he returns—not drunk but looking it, the sway of the El in his gait, city on him like a stench, eyes slipping past her to the window. “Calls?”

Comments

[redheadpepper]

Keeping Don Draper's affairs in order - that's not too much of a challenge, not when you're used to running the life of a half-mad billionaire. But in a place like Baedal, there are always extra little headaches, and Pepper's eyes are open and alert as ever.

He's not drunk when he comes in that evening, there's no stench of booze or vomit on him, she'd know that stench anywhere. Maybe he's punch-drunk. Or drugged, but he doesn't seem like the type to partake of anything more hardcore than his usual scotch and cigarettes. Pepper observes these things.

"Nope," she says, matter-of-factly, her eyes on the ledger in front of her but her attention really on him.

[selfmadman]

He nods, accepting then discarding the answer. It doesn't mean what it did that morning. Crossing to the window he cracks it open. He holds a palm to the stale air as if feeling for a fever. Slightly hunched, something gathering at his shoulders. He isn't tired but he's glimpsed exhaustion on the other side of this.

Don lights a cigarette and gets in a drag before he turns to look at her. “Come turn down a drink,” he says in a thick voice, with a smile that flickers out.

[redheadpepper]

She's concerned. She can't help it, it must be part of her nature, to feel like she has to take care of these difficult men, emotionally-stunted maybe, but then she's not always the greatest with feelings, either.

Maybe it makes sense.

She follows him, her heels clicking lightly along the floor. They're not exactly the Louboutins she favors back home, but still tasteful, high-quality.

She leans a hip against his desk lightly. "What happened?"

[selfmadman]

In the office an empty page reproaches him from the typewriter. Don makes for the bottle, pours a drink exact as a stitch. Through her question he pulls on his cigarette with distracted devotion.

“I got something I asked for,” he says, shaking his head, feeling like he's left an important scrap of himself flapping behind a car. He drains his glass and puts it aside, stows his cigarette in his mouth. The map he draws folded from his jacket pocket. It rests lightly in his hands. “Are you curious yet?”