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[ oom: cast me gently into morning for the night has been unkind ]

More than eighteen hours, two hot showers and three cups of coffee later, Kate still isn't sure what happened — if it happened at all.

She's in a booth near the back of the room, working on a mug of hot chocolate and a crossword.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ ( '70s sitcom Three's _______ ) welcome.

[ tiny plot tag: thy kingdom come ]

[ ooc: millitimed to monday ]

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"I haven't worked on a crossword in forever," comes a mildly rueful voice.

The speaker in question is standing five or so yards from Kate, a mug of coffee held in his right hand, his left stuck in his pocket.

But really, the only paper that Michael Bluth's been seeing lately is paperwork.

Kate lifts her eyes and gives the guy a wry half-smile.

"Me, either." Beat. "If you can give me a seven-letter word for 'NFL salary limit,' you can have a seat."

Or even if he can't.

"All I can think of is 'salary cap', and that isn't seven letters," Michael replies.

"I suppose you could also go with 'wage cap', but that's two words, anyhow."

She studies the blanks and narrows her eyes.

"I think it is two words." One beat. Two. "Hard cap."

She looks up and grins. "Thanks." She gestures to the empty side of the booth. "It's all yours — I'd welcome the help."

"There you go."

He grins as well, taking the offered seat and placing his mug on the table before putting out his now unoccupied hand.

"Michael Bluth."

She puts down her pen (silly, to attempt a crossword in pen when she doesn't do them all that often) and shakes the proffered hand.

"Kate Warner."

"Pleasure to meet you, Kate," Michael says cheerfully, "How long have you been around?"

"Likewise; I've been here about six weeks. And yourself?"

"'Bout five months now, I think. Haven't been around that much, though."

"Oh, so you're not Bound?"

Kate is.

"Not anymore," he states. "I was at the very beginning. Are you Bound?"

She nods.

"How long did it take for your door to show up?"

"Oh, let me think. A couple of weeks, I think. But it varies. How long've you been stuck? The entire time?"

Another nod.

"I keep telling myself it's a forced vacation, but I really need to get back for my sister's wedding."

"That's really the only way to look at being Bound," Michael muses.

"Sister's wedding, huh? What's the date in your world?"

A beat.

"Which reminds me to ask that essential question - when and where're you from? I'm from Newport Beach, California, 2006."

"I think you're right," she agrees. It's the least brain-breaky perspective, anyway. Then she brightens. "It's 2005 for me — and I'm about an hour away, in L.A."

"Not too shabby," he responds. "And I have to say, I am so glad that my family name doesn't ring any bells for you."

Because if it did, he might have to go hide under the stair car.

She quirks an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

The narration says to watch out for hop-ons.

And banners.

"The Bluths are sort of.."

Michael pauses, in an attempt to find an appropriate word.

".. infamous, to put it mildly."

And Lindsay behind the wheel. Because, ohdeargod.

"Infamous?" she echoes, picking up her pen again and leaning forward slightly. "Well, you can't stop there."

"I guess I was asking for it," Michael says, smiling.

"Let's start with my siblings, shall we?"

Pulling a napkin from a nearby dispenser, he produces a pen from his shirt pocket, and scribbles a brief family tree.

"Gob, my older brother. Unsuccessful magician and womanizer. Buster, my younger brother, lives with my mom. Lindsay, my twin sister, married her husband, Tobias, as an act of rebellion. Both are out of work. And Annyong, accidentally adopted by my parents from Korea."

He extends the tree to include his parents.

"My dad, George. Fugitive for treason, lives in my attic. My mom, Lucille, has a drinking problem. And now the kids: my son, George Michael, and Lindsay's daughter, Maeby. Surprisingly enough, they're fine."

Little does he know, but we're not going there right now.

Kate studies the tree and blinks.

"I — wow."

She licks her lips. An "accidental" adoption, treason, an alcoholic ... She's not quite sure what to respond to first.

"Not quite what Rockwell had in mind." Pause. "Treason?"

Re: Kissing cousins, it's best not to. Ignorance bubbles are bliss.

"Yeah. That, and 'creative accounting'."

" ... Oh."

She rolls the pen between her thumb and forefinger.

"And what do you, um, do?"

To be fair, Michael looks well-adjusted.

And he's not gallivanting about on a Segway.

He sighs, and smiles in a way that suggests that he appreciates the fact that she hasn't up and left the conversation.

"I try to salvage what's left of the Bluth Company, and what's left of my family."