(some of) THE STRANGEST PLACES PONCE HAS SLEPT.

[titusnowl]

A picnic bench, under a newspaper. Roddie had insisted that he had a friend in Nether Wasdale who would let them crash at his place, but when they arrived there'd been no sign of the lad; he'd apparently hied it for greener pastures, or simply a place with a population in the double digits. The idea of pushing on until they found lodging elsewhere was posited, but the hour already grew late - they'd gotten distracted up-valley whilst stopped for lunch, and stayed fooling around on the greensward right through to tea - and neither of them was actually certain that there /would/ be lodging elsewhere; Terry hadn't cash enough in his pockets at the moment to get them a room at any of the fancy little holidaymakers' inns, and so they decided they may as well rough it, and made themselves comfortable as possible at the picnicking area in the village green. They were roused at dawn by a member of the local constabulary and sent on their way, both of them complaining volubly about the quality of Lake District hospitality as they went.

A tree. Whilst courting Miranda the brilliant idea occurred to him of waiting in a tree outside her window in order to greet her with poetry and heartfelt passion and the like. Unfortunately, he just so happened to choose for this purpose an evening when she, unbeknownst to him, decided to go out with friends and stay over in another girl's room. He waited patiently, the truest lover, for his lady's return, and eventually drifted off into a slumber which was broken rudely at breakfast-time by an accusation of Peeping Tomhood from the window /next/ to Miranda's. He also got moss on one of his nicer suits and scraped up the back of his neck rather uncomfortably from the use of the rough bark of a branch as his pillow.

An elevator. As elsewhere noted, he was on the tail end of a rather prodigious bender at the time of his matriculation into UIEEI, and this combined with the number of drinks he imbibed whilst visiting with his new (sort-of) coworkers at the Cloak & Dagger bar did little good for his abilities to pick up on such subtleties as The Unwritten Bylaws and Abilities Denoted by Possession of a "License to Kill." When everyone else turned out to have rooms in the hotel, and it was clear that this was The Done Thing in this crowd, he was loath to admit that he was still technically staying at the Flamingo (in that he had yet to tell the front desk he was leaving, although the reservation had run out that morning), and equally loath to be the only one heading for a cab when everyone else poured into the lift and headed upstairs; so he joined them, and after they left, his state of inebriation suggested to him that he really ought to sit down. No one bothered him at any point (unconscious men in the elevator being no more uncommon there than anywhere else in Las Vegas), and he awoke on his own around lunchtime to an even worse headache than he'd had the day before and a sudden familiarity with the rather obnoxious pattern on someone else's socks.


I don't think roofs count as strange places actually
Nor does "under someone's bed"



edit:
None of Thierry's scars were earned in his adventurous youth, because he didn't have an adventurous youth; his childhood was an indoor one, make-believe games and books and the hardwood floors of his family's two-level apartment in Paris, sitting in the window seat puzzling over the cursive script of l'Histoire de Babar and making faces at the occupying German policemen patrolling in the street below and imagining how he would rule his own kingdom (there would be no hippos allowed, and no Nazis either). He chipped a tooth sliding down a banister once, but it was only a milk tooth, so it didn't count.

In England he was less cooped up, and there were sports and games and tree-climbing with the other boys in school, though he still preferred make-believe and stories; skinned knees and bruises and a couple of hard-earned black eyes after finally laying into the ones who called him Frog, nothing permanent.

He was 17 before he earned his first real scar, a once-nasty, now-almost-faded patch on his elbow received in a fall off the back end of an omnibus while attempting to escape a bobby whose helmet he'd just nicked on a dare. His suit had held up better than the skin underneath it, and given him what amounted to extremely bad rugburn.

A couple of years later he got one on the underside of the tip of his chin, courtesy of the windscreen on Roddie's scooter - first riding lesson, and the brakes were rather more responsive than he'd expected. Thankfully, it does not mar his startlingly attractive face.

He has the usual assortment of marks left behind from years of Classed work; nothing particularly large or noteworthy, just the remnants of times he was neither fast enough to evade nor slow enough for either his enemy or his Medic to get him into respawn. The only one that appears even remotely interesting is a shallow ridge between his shoulderblades, which looks for all the world to be precisely what he claims: a backstab he survived. It's actually the result of an accident with a coat-peg. Embarrassment all around.



edit again: found in text document don't remember writing or nor why i did:
Ponce smells of cigarettes and a touch of fancy cologne (woodsy and green, masculine but delicate - faggy, yes, but at least not girly) and the hint of ozone that comes from the cloaking device and manages to cling to his clothes despite cleaning and work into his hair despite the mask.
(cuddles, i imagine, smells like sweat and ivory soap, in different proportions depending on elapsed time since shower)
("so what do you think crusoe smells like" i ask myself, and my inner ponce goes "*ADORATIONPOSE* ....australia")