closed starter || @crimsonfaux || darcy & oliver || southern transport
for once in his life, a meeting doesn’t sound so bad. darcy’s strolled past the doors of southern transport with a sort of ease about him that hearkens back to a time before his record was marred track marks and emptied syringes. the hints have been dropped, the nudges have been placed in what he believes has been a masterfully subtle approach.
he’s leaning on, uh-- something-- arms crossed over his chest. a quick glance confirms that it’s the front desk, covered in all the usual front desk materials: he sees a sticky note dispenser in the shape of a dinosaur, an all metal stapler, a calendar with a different kitten for each month-- commonplace to most, foreign to a thirty-one year old who hasn’t worked a real job a day in his life.
“Place looks nice-- I mean like always, I guess.” eyes wander aimlessly.
“People work like nine to five here, right? Like a normal job?”
