─ “I hate you but you’re my lover’s best friend and now we’re stuck in an elevator together and you keep making inappropriate jokes; I swear to god don’t make me choke yo─IT ISN’T KINKY.” oh my god this is so good do it with Molly with ANY you choose. I trust you
wow I spent forever trying to figure out which characters to use lol (who would hate Molly??? who would Molly hate???). also i stole a bunch of jokes because my humor is not inappropriate enough. and this is still very tame. it’s not quite the prompt but it’s prompt-adjacent
The elevator starts to close, but Molly hears footsteps quickly rounding the corner, so she hits the ‘open’ button to hold the door.
Except, when she sees who it is, she knows she needn’t have bothered.
Molly looks up to see an impassive expression on a narrow face. Aquiline, almost lofty, if you could discount the eyes. No, the eyes were anything but detached. They were eyes of the most animated sort, with crows feet that only enhanced the expressiveness. They could twinkle with joy, hallow out with some sort of existential depth, or, when they deigned to look upon Molly, turn into some sort of smoldering anger.
Sebastian Moran steps into the elevator, and gave her a curt nod.
Then he presses the button for the lobby, despite the fact that Molly had already done so, and turns to face front so as to not have to look at her or otherwise engage in any interaction.
“I already hit that,” Molly says.
He gives her a cursory glance, but says nothing.
The two of them are alone in the elevator, and Molly thinks, a 12-floor ride can’t be that bad.
It’s like being in the elevator alone, except there’s a menacing man not two steps from her and they’re stuck in this little enclosed space. Not that small. Maybe she should take a step back. Except it’s just an elevator ride and 6….5…. it’ll be over soon.
The elevator stops, and Molly instinctively takes a step forward, only to come face to back with Moran because he hasn’t moved. She startles, and sees the doors haven’t opened.
And that the floor number is stuck on 3.
She takes the opportunity to take three steps back, and waits.
An ominous humming whirrs above them. Just the vents, she reminds herself.
The doors don’t open, and no one on the third floor seems to be trying to get in.
Moran completely ignores her.
Alright, conversation not necessary. It’s just an elevator ride anyway. It would be over soon, no matter.
The elevator doesn’t budge, and neither does the door.
Molly takes out her phone, even though she knows it won’t be of much use. There’s no signal. And they’ve already been in here for 8 minutes.
That’s a really long time for an elevator ride.
It’s also a really long time to awkwardly not-acknowledge someone you’re standing less than three feet from.
“So. Um,” she starts. He barely glances at her, but that was a half-slight-turn. Good sign.
“Did you know it’s illegal to tell jokes about the Holocaust in Germany?” she asks, because Molly is full of trivia, and not that great at small talk.
He freezes, visibly tenses, but doesn’t say anything.
“Like, isn’t that just an incredibly facist approach to anti-Semitism?” she continues, unable to stop herself. “Have they learned nothing?”
Moran slowly—very, very, slowly—turns around, so that he can look at her. He gives he an almost incredulous stare. Like he’s pretty sure he heard correctly, but doesn’t really want to have heard correctly.
“Um. Do you like cats?” she asks.
“I have a cat, you know, you’ve met him,” she says. “But, funny story.”
“So, my friend has a cat, and a couple of years ago she had two cats, before she and her boyfriend broke up and they split the cats, very sad story, completely different thing, I’ll tell you later,” she rambles.
“And one was a boy cat and the other was a girl cat,” Molly continues. She takes a deep breath. “And anyway, she asked me to house sit one week, when they were taking a holiday together, and I said of course, because I didn’t have anything to do that week. I was. Alone then.”
She clears her throat. He’s looking at anywhere but her.
“So I’m house-sitting for her and her two cats are there, and then, at 9:30 p.m., I remember, because I was about to call her, before I remembered, you know, she’s on holiday and I’m in her flat,” Molly says.
“The boy cat starts having sex with her winter boots.”
Moran is staring at the wall again.
“And it wasn’t just once. This went on for, well, pretty much every single night I was house sitting for her. Every single night, between 9 and 10 p.m., the cat would just go at it with the boot.”
“And, remember, she has two cats. There is a girl cat and a boy cat. He had options,” Molly continues, gesturing now. “There was literally another cat. But he looked at that girl cat, the only other cat he’d ever seen, and he decided, no thanks, I’m going to go with the boot.”
“I mean, how ugly must the girl cat have felt?”
Moran walks over to the wall and jams the ‘fire’ button, and the emergency line starts to dial.
“How must that girl cat have felt about herself?”
“Can you please stop talking,” Moran grits out.
Molly opens her mouth to respond, but the lobby receptionist picks up.
“Hello, yes, we’re stuck in the West elevator, it’s stuck on the third floor,” Moran says. “And we’d like to get out.”
And then he gets put on hold.
“I wonder what’s the matter,” Molly says.
Moran leans his head against the wall.
“Probably a while. I find this happens often, with helplines and things like that. I was at the Apple store the other day, to get my laptop fixed, and you know, the people at the genius bar are just so mean,” she says, like she hasn’t married a literal genius with a social deficiency, and Moran tries to think about literally anything else.
“Anyway, after I picked up my laptop, there was this other man who’d brought his computer to get fixed too, and the woman flips open the laptop and then says, ‘Why is this so sticky?!’” Molly mimicks.
Moran stares at her, and he looks kind of livid.
“And he says ‘I spilled Sangria,’” she retells, in a really sad, pathetic tone.
“Did you think I was going to say jizz? That would be bad, too, I suppose. Worse if it was both,” she says and then snorts. “Like you were trying to wine and dine yourself.”
Moran inhales deeply and counts to ten.
“Look,” he says. “I don’t like you.”
“You know I only put up with you because your husband and I are poker buddies,” he continues in that clipped tone. Poker—namely, not just holding his own against three emotionally volatile/stunted geniuses but also cleaning them out on a weekly basis—was the highlight of his week now that they weren’t trying to kill each other and he was out of a job. “But that doesn’t mean we’re friends, that doesn’t mean I have to talk to you, it doesn’t mean I have to go out of my way to be nice to you.”
Completely unnecessary, Molly thinks. But she nods her agreement anyway.
“You clearly don’t care much for me either,” he says, not bitter, but matter-of-factly, “so I think it would be better if we just stayed out of each other’s ways.”
Molly nods again. Makes sense.
“So how’s Carol?” she asks. He pretends not to hear. “Going well, I suppose? Since you’re here. In her apartment building. At 7 in the morning. In yesterday’s clothes. Are they still calling it the walk of—”
“Okay if you say one more thing, I swear to God, I will choke you—”
