The Universe's Mixer

Wes checked his watch and sighed. It still wasn't working correctly. By his calculations (granted, based on what things looked like when he woke up, which might not be accurate considering his hotel was in black and white TV-land), it should be mid-afternoon. But his watch was saying 12:31 pm.

Only one thing to do then.

********

After walking out of the closest-thing-to-Panera-the-City-could-come-up-with, he walked over to the park and sat on the bench. The backpack he dropped on the ground besides him clunked hollowly, as if it was bigger inside than it looked and contained far more items in the interior than seemed possible. Of course, those things were true. Small magics made life easier. Large magics, however.....they usually tended to screw things up.

That was one of the things his new Slayer would have to learn. If she would ever show up.

Baseball was one of those things that normal people did, right?

Dexter had this intense need to feel normal. Even if it was just for one afternoon. Just a few hours. Away from life. Away from the police station. Away from knowing that he was some special cog in the universe of Death. Away from George, though she was his best friend. He could be himself around her, but around her, he wasn't a human being. He was Dexter. The killer. And she knew. And he knew about her. It was really really hard to feel normal when you were chatting with a reaper, no matter how cute she might be.

He'd wandered around thinking normal to himself, and what the City had provided him with was a baseball game.

He supposed he was enjoying it. As much as one could enjoy things when they were sitting outside under a hot Spring sun, watching a game that went slower than a dead snail and had no physical contact or confrontation to break up the monotony while eating six days expired hot dogs in stale buns. The hot dogs were the only things keeping him there. He'd already gotten up to get three. Now he was up to get more. And soda. He should have been drinking water, he knew. But if he was going to digest the disgusting food, he needed something sweet.

Thank whoever he'd been born and raised in Miami.

When he reached the counter, there was a little polite smile to the guy standing in the line next to his.

Jack was happy. He was monkey-free. So very happy about that he could have kissed young Hannibal for taking that thing off his hands.

He was still sans gorgeous first mate, and he still wanted to see Inara again.

So, the day after Hannibal's departure, Jack left the Pearl, compass in hand, focused on the lovely girl he'd met. The needle pointed, and Jack followed.

Which is why when he did not find Inara right away, when he found, instead, a largeish building in his way and stood there bewildered, he had no problem turning to the person next to him and saying, with utmost sincereity, "Tha's not supposed t'happen."