Jon should have known better by now. Opening any kind of drawer or cupboard or storage space at Stephen's studio was a hazardous experience, best carried out by trained professionals. But Stephen had insisted that he wait in the break room, the coffee pot was empty, and there was a neon blue Post-It on the door above it labeled "COFFEE." What could go wrong?
The instant Jon opened it, something stiff, metallic, and pointy nearly took his eye out.
He scrambled backward as the silvery spire popped forward, revealing other spires attached to its base, which wasn't the base at all because it kept coming. One of Stephen's creepy dimensional portals must have been holding the thing, and was now discharging it bit by bit: enough metal to form the frame of a mid-sized pup tent, and in almost as complicated a configuration.
Jon hid under the table.
There was a pile of glittery silver fabric with a couple of metallic plates sewn in attached to part of the thing -- the center, Jon realized when it tipped fully out of the portal and began to tip over. At this point it looked mostly like a giant fake snowflake, its diameter wider than Jon was tall. And were those...bits of tinsel? Some kind of demented Christmas decoration?
The demented whatever-it-was landed with a thunk with its side against the table, two of its radial spires having landed on the ground and wedged themselves against the base of the fridge.
Jon was definitely not trying another drawer for coffee. At this point, no one was even going to be able to reach the coffee pot anyway.
Playing it safe, he stayed under the table until a familiar pair of wingtips sashayed through the door. "Stephen! Hey, I'm down here. Sorry about the, uh...."
"My costume!" exclaimed Stephen. "You found it!"
Jon inched out from his hiding place. "Your...what?"
"My costume," Stephen repeated, pulling the snowflake to a vertical position, then reaching through the spires and holding up the fabric. "I was going to wear it at the opening ceremonies of the Olympics when I was up in Vancouver, but then I lost it! Where was it hiding?"
The fabric's true form struck Jon with Magic Eye suddenness: a leotard, the snowflake radiating from its back like a peacock's tail. It was about Stephen's proportions, even. On the other hand, it was strapless, and visibly designed for someone with cleavage.
"It was in the coffee cupboard," said Jon, still keeping a wary distance. (You never knew what else might fall out.) "Someone must have...uh...accidentally put it there." And by 'accidentally' he meant 'deliberately, in order to spare Stephen becoming a target of moral outrage for the very people whose approval he most desperately craves.' (Or was that too optimistic? It was just as likely to be 'deliberately, in order to annoy the horrible boss.')
"Well, that's stupid. How are people supposed to find the coffee? That explains why my interns are always so tired." Stephen squeezed past the costume, letting it go (it fell back against the table with a BANG that made Jon jump), and stuck his hand in the cupboard in question.
"Stephen, don't--!" cried Jon, too late. Stephen's arm vanished an inch or so past the end of the shelves; when he got all the way in it looked as if he'd been cleanly amputated just below the shoulder.
"Quit being a sissy, Jon. It's just quantum rearrangement. Make Neil Degrasse Tyson explain it to you sometime." He rooted around invisibly for a few moments, then lit up and drew his arm back. Clutched in his hand was what appeared to be a few strips of black cloth.
At least, until he held them up by the shoulders.
"And here's the costume I was going to wear when I went to Iraq!" enthused Stephen, displaying a slinky black Cher-style catsuit. "Now I know what I'm doing for Fleet Week this year! C'mon, Jon, help me carry this."
In spite of himself, Jon ended up lifting one of the snowflake costume's horizontal spires, the one nearest the door, while Stephen hefted the opposite one (the catsuit was hanging over it like the world's shiniest clothesline). "Uh, where are we going?"
"My office!"
"Not, uh, the wardrobe room?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Jon. I know I've aged well, but my youthful figure still isn't quite what it used to be. Can't give these to wardrobe until I know if they still fit, can I? You'll have to help me into the Olympics one, of course."
It was surprisingly hard to argue with. "Of course," said Jon, and, trying to look at least somewhat put-upon for appearances' sake, led the way.
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(03) Snowflake
The instant Jon opened it, something stiff, metallic, and pointy nearly took his eye out.
He scrambled backward as the silvery spire popped forward, revealing other spires attached to its base, which wasn't the base at all because it kept coming. One of Stephen's creepy dimensional portals must have been holding the thing, and was now discharging it bit by bit: enough metal to form the frame of a mid-sized pup tent, and in almost as complicated a configuration.
Jon hid under the table.
There was a pile of glittery silver fabric with a couple of metallic plates sewn in attached to part of the thing -- the center, Jon realized when it tipped fully out of the portal and began to tip over. At this point it looked mostly like a giant fake snowflake, its diameter wider than Jon was tall. And were those...bits of tinsel? Some kind of demented Christmas decoration?
The demented whatever-it-was landed with a thunk with its side against the table, two of its radial spires having landed on the ground and wedged themselves against the base of the fridge.
Jon was definitely not trying another drawer for coffee. At this point, no one was even going to be able to reach the coffee pot anyway.
Playing it safe, he stayed under the table until a familiar pair of wingtips sashayed through the door. "Stephen! Hey, I'm down here. Sorry about the, uh...."
"My costume!" exclaimed Stephen. "You found it!"
Jon inched out from his hiding place. "Your...what?"
"My costume," Stephen repeated, pulling the snowflake to a vertical position, then reaching through the spires and holding up the fabric. "I was going to wear it at the opening ceremonies of the Olympics when I was up in Vancouver, but then I lost it! Where was it hiding?"
The fabric's true form struck Jon with Magic Eye suddenness: a leotard, the snowflake radiating from its back like a peacock's tail. It was about Stephen's proportions, even. On the other hand, it was strapless, and visibly designed for someone with cleavage.
"It was in the coffee cupboard," said Jon, still keeping a wary distance. (You never knew what else might fall out.) "Someone must have...uh...accidentally put it there." And by 'accidentally' he meant 'deliberately, in order to spare Stephen becoming a target of moral outrage for the very people whose approval he most desperately craves.' (Or was that too optimistic? It was just as likely to be 'deliberately, in order to annoy the horrible boss.')
"Well, that's stupid. How are people supposed to find the coffee? That explains why my interns are always so tired." Stephen squeezed past the costume, letting it go (it fell back against the table with a BANG that made Jon jump), and stuck his hand in the cupboard in question.
"Stephen, don't--!" cried Jon, too late. Stephen's arm vanished an inch or so past the end of the shelves; when he got all the way in it looked as if he'd been cleanly amputated just below the shoulder.
"Quit being a sissy, Jon. It's just quantum rearrangement. Make Neil Degrasse Tyson explain it to you sometime." He rooted around invisibly for a few moments, then lit up and drew his arm back. Clutched in his hand was what appeared to be a few strips of black cloth.
At least, until he held them up by the shoulders.
"And here's the costume I was going to wear when I went to Iraq!" enthused Stephen, displaying a slinky black Cher-style catsuit. "Now I know what I'm doing for Fleet Week this year! C'mon, Jon, help me carry this."
In spite of himself, Jon ended up lifting one of the snowflake costume's horizontal spires, the one nearest the door, while Stephen hefted the opposite one (the catsuit was hanging over it like the world's shiniest clothesline). "Uh, where are we going?"
"My office!"
"Not, uh, the wardrobe room?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Jon. I know I've aged well, but my youthful figure still isn't quite what it used to be. Can't give these to wardrobe until I know if they still fit, can I? You'll have to help me into the Olympics one, of course."
It was surprisingly hard to argue with. "Of course," said Jon, and, trying to look at least somewhat put-upon for appearances' sake, led the way.