fandomhighdorms | The Hallways, Saturday Morning

"Oh, god."

Somebody was having a minor crisis in the hallway.

"Oh god oh god oh god."

Somebody had woken up in a dorm room on the third floor, as opposed to the hotel room that he'd fallen alseep in the night before. That somebody had instantly realized, before anything else, that he was wingless and sleeping alone, and the rest had gone somewhat downhill from there. There had been the first glance in the mirror, distracted at first by the lack of wings, and then sharp and panicked as he took in whose face was staring back at him. There had been a few minutes of wide-eyed, stupid staring after that, while all the little gears ground into place.

And then there had been a moment of utter terror, where he had to keep himself from flinging himself out the window because that was generally the fastest way for him to get into town. The sprint down the hallway had been short-lived, because somewhere just before the stairs, Warren had learned for the first time in his life what it was like to be not only even remotely out of shape, but asthmatic.

On the plus side, at least he'd managed to find clothing to pull on besides the Space Battles boxer shorts he'd woken up in that morning.

"Karla!"

Warren was not having the best of mornings, standing at the top of the stairs and trying to catch his breath. No sir.

[OOC: Open, as hallways tend to be! If you want to run into a wheezing Not!Topher, here's your chance. You might get desperately hit up for rickshaw fare. Or just incoherently spazzed at.]

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Warren could name one person who wasn't keen on finding out, and that person was currently attempting to take the stairs about four at a time while at the same time keeping his balance and not breaking his neck.

"I'm kind of banking on the healing factor to keep Karla from killing my body after the sudden and inevitable, horrible mutilation that's going to happen when she realizes it's Topher," Warren admitted, wheezing... only a little bit, so far. Kind of.

"Hey, hey, whoa," Bobby said, reaching out to steady Warren after what looked like a particularly precarious footfall on one of those stairs. "You currently don't have one, so be careful, hey?"

Bobby was totally Warren's hero, right there.

"Thanks," he muttered, stopping on that step for a moment to kind of catch his breath and get a feel for his balance all over again. "No wings, no healing factor. How do people live like this?"

No wonder the world hated mutants. They were bitter. Bitter and out of shape.

"No kidding," Bobby groused. "It's friggin' cold outside." And he wasn't used to feeling that! At least, not the way most people did.

"Yeah, but at least you can handle stairs," Warren grumbled, starting back down at a somewhat more careful pace. "And a fall down them."

Warren was half convinced that Topher's body would just kind of deflate if he were to take a tumble, and then he'd be stuck for the rest of the weekend as a shrivelled-up bag of meat and shattered bones.

Warren did not handle 'fragile' well, apparently.

"Warren, that's disgusting," Bobby made a face at him. Because that really was a terrible mental image.

"And I didn't say that," Warren countered, making a face right back. "At least I'm not thinking about all the horrible things that Karla could be doing to my body right now."

... Oh, wait. Now he was. Damn it. Sorry, Bobby.

"Except you are now," Bobby whined. "Dude, this bites." At least they were finally at the ground floor? Small miracles.

Small, small miracles.

"I'm trying not to! But I've met Karla!"

And Topher! And one was not going to do much good trying to talk the other down, all things considered!

"How long does it take a rickshaw to get here, usually, anyhow? I've never exactly needed one before."

"No idea," Bobby shrugged, as they headed outside. "I've never bothered." He didn't have wings, true, but even without taking into account the fact that ice-sliding was faster than walking (because he didn't usually use that mode of transportation around Fandom) he did usually have an excess of energy that running or walking could help take care of.

"It's a small island," Warren agreed. "Nobody should have to bother. Unless they have stuff to carry or something."

A beat. A glance at Bobby.

No. No, he was not going to ask if he could just ride piggyback so they could get going right then and there. That would be rude.

"No," Bobby shook his head. "You're too heavy," that's right, Topher's body. Bobby just called you fat. "And besides, my balance would be all screwy." Adjusting was easy enough when it was just a matter of his own body, but trying to carry someone else? That way laid disaster.

"You're telling me about balance?" Warren was making another face at Bobby. "I'm used to hollow bones and a wingspan. I can tell you all about messed-up balance, Bobby."

And he would, too. At length, if given the opportunity.

Warren was apparently prone to ranting under stress. Who knew?

"Hey, hey," Bobby stuck out his tongue in an amazing display of maturity. "You're the one who brought up the idea of me carrying you." Sort of. He flagged down a rickshaw driver and then gestured at Warren to climb in. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"To wake up," Warren grumbled, hauling himself up into the rickshaw with a bit of effort. He was blaming the weight without wings on solid bones. Solid bones, he was deciding, were stupid.

So there.

"Any minute now, someone is going to pinch me or throw water in my face or something, and I'll be back in bed with Karla. Because I'm feeling nice, you can wake up in your own body, too. You're welcome."

"You're so kind," Bobby said dryly. "Really." He sighed. "Maybe Karla can fix it." She and Sookie had last time, so maybe...? Of course, last time actually had been Emma's doing, and not Fandom's, which he was beginning to acknowledge might actually be the culprit this time around.

"If Karla can't fix it, I'm just going to spend the rest of whatever this is in the shower." Because one, Karla wouldn't want anything to do with Warren while he was running around looking like Topher. And two, he smelled like ... Topher.

Shut up.

"Or eating vegetables. When's the last time anyone has ever seen Topher eating a vegetable?"

This also seemed like an important thing to rant about today. Lucky Bobby!

"There was a celery stick in one of his drinks the last time we all went out?" was all Bobby could come up with. "Maybe when this gets fixed we should see about putting him on a diet." Because apparently those things were up to them?

Warren would publish a book after this whole thing was over, and present it to Billy.

"The Care and Feeding of a Topher," he grumbled. "I'd put money on him leaving that celery in the glass after he was finished his drink, too."

The Hallways, Saturday Morning

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