The Long Journey Home

3: We can't drown our demons when they know how to swim

[ Chapter notes: TFATWS episode 1x03 - episode transcript: Sam & Sharon ]

"You help us out, and I get your name cleared."

"Well, I sell to some pretty connected people. Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party. Try to stay outta trouble."

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          Sharon rediscovers you hours later. Doing your best not to feel useless, you sip cautiously at the edges of a glass of champagne you've picked up for appearances sake. Everyone wandering the floor seems to have something in their hands – be it drink or a tablet that sucks in the focus of those grouped around it. It was hard to make heads or tails of, at first. Gallery? Auction house? Party? There is a party somewhere on the premises if the occasional appearance of a person wearing body glitter is any indication.

          You break away from the outskirts of the group you'd attached yourself to, returning to Sharon's side with what you hope is a pleasant sigh of relief. You've just about worn through your ability to maintain idle conversation without asking any potentially dangerous questions. "Am I needed?"

          You sound disgustingly chipper, annoyingly desperate to prove your usefulness. It makes you wince, but your new friend dips her chin as she smiles and looks away. She switches to shaking her head as she wordlessly steers the pair of you through the crowd. Her attention is swiveling, surveying the room and the inhabitants within. Checking on the guests to make sure you're the only one suffering from boredom? Once again you find yourself wishing you knew more about what you were supposed to be doing. Is there anything you could do to be useful to your new coworker?

          "You looked like you needed saving."

          Hmm. That's something you'll have to work on. Hopefully it won't count as a black mark on your record here on the first day – or rather, night – of your new job. You stall as you try to figure out how to answer, taking your first full sip of the liquid from the flute you've been using as a social crutch. It's nearly warm, forcing you to wince as you swallow.

          "First, from that group." Sharon turns her head just enough to look at you sidelong, "And—" she reaches to pluck the flute from your fingers to deposit the glass on a tray as the pair of you pass a member of the waitstaff, "Now, that drink."