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"Okay, yeah, but, look, there have been, like, four hundred postcards already." David chewed on his thumbnail for a second, watched as Garett tried again to get a dial-up connection. "And they all said the same thing! 'David Hewlett-"

" are you so awesome." Garett didn't even look up from the computer. "I know, okay? You've told me, like, eighteen times. I get it." He clicked the screen. "Ah! There it goes."

The sound of beeping and the buzzing of the phone line filled the air, and Ken snorted himself awake on the couch. "Bzuh?" he said, rubbing his eyes with one thick-fingered hand.

Garett glared at David. "See? Look what you did."

"What I did!" David said indignantly. He waved a stack of postcards at the computer, several of them falling to the floor as he did so. "You're the one with dial-up in 2006."

Garett was quiet for a second, looking hurt. He toed the floor with his Birkenstock. "High-speed is, like, forty bucks a month."

"You can buy a lot of funyons for forty bucks," Ken offered sleepily from the corner.

Garett sighed. "Yeah. You can."

Ken nodded proudly to himself, as though he had made a particularly good point, and David wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Anyway," he said, crouching down on the floor and carefully scooping up the fallen postcards, arranging them in, apparently, a particular order, then patting them into a careful pile, "Like I was saying, I've been gettting, like, dozens of these every day. I have to go down to my agent like, three, four times a week to pick them up!"

Garett, keeping half an eye on the computer screen as it slowly confirmed its connection, craned his neck to look at the pile on David's lap. "That doesn't look like five hundred postcards," he said dubiously.

David sighed in exasperation. "I don't carry them all with me." He flipped through the pile on his lap. "Just my favorites." He pulled one out and held it out so Garett could see. "This is one with a Dalek."

"A what?" Garett tilted back in his chair, trying to get a closer look, and tipped himself over onto the floor. "Ow," he said, rubbing the back of his head.

"Hey," said Ken, stretching out a hand. "Can you pass me my funyons? They're under the desk there."

Garett grabbed the dusty bag with two fingers and tossed it at Ken.

David was breathing onto the shiny surface of the postcard and rubbing it on his sleeve to clean it up. "A Dalek," he said, "From Doctor Who." He looked up at Garett. "They all know I like Doctor Who. It's pretty cool. They sent me an -"

"Yeah," Garett interrupted. "An inflatable one. I know." He had climbed back into the kitchen chair that was in front of his old, scarred computer desk, and was peering intently at the screen.

"And they all say the same thing." David grinned down at the postcards, then looked up at Garett. "What are you looking for, anyway?"

"Well," Garett said, smugly, "Just looking to see if there are any updates. You know, to the whole universe that my fans have created. It's all about me. They call it the GarettVerse." He looked over his shoulder at David. "Intercapped. That makes it cooler."

"A whole universe?" David scooted his chair closer, peering over Garett's shoulder. "Like, how? Like, they stalk you?"

"Nuh-uh, not stalking really, they're not, like, sociopaths or anything." Garett chewed on his lip for a second. "At least, I don't think so."

"Huh." David scratched the back of his head. "So what do they write about?"

"My life," exclaimed Garett, gesturing around grandly. David looked around. Ken was struggling with the bag of Funyons on the couch, apparently unable to get them open. There was a string of Christmas lights, tacked to the wall at some point, half-fallen down over the couch. Garett had a pile of copies of Demon Under Glass - in VHS and DVD format - stacked up carefully in the corner. Most of the furniture looked like it came from Garett's mom's basement, and - the centerpiece of the room - on top of the TV, the boxed set of season one of The Sentinel was carefully propped open. Richard Burgi glared fiercely at David from the front of the three DVDs.

"Yeah," said David slowly, patting Garett's shoulder. "That must give them a lot to go on."

"I know," said Garett. "This year especially, what with the DVDs -" He looked over his shoulder, and David squinched his eyes closed, but not before he was pretty sure he saw Garett throw at kiss at Richard's picture - "and with Moonridge coming up." He cast a glance at David. "You know, Moonridge?" he said hopefully. "Where I think maybe -"

"Yeah," said David gently. "Yeah, I know, buddy. I bet Rich is totally going to be there this year."

"Yeah," said Garett happily, leaning forward and clicking refresh. "Yeah."

David sighed, and rifled through his postcards again. "Anyway," he said, changing to cooler topics, "I bet I get, like, six hundred of these before the end of the week. Maybe a thousand by the time it's all done. And they all say the same thing: David Hewlett, how are you so awesome?"

Garett mouthed it along with him. "Yeah, I know, okay?" he said grumpily. "It's cool." He sighed. "I guess. I mean, it's not like you get a whole universe or anything. Or an intern."

"You have an intern?" David said curiously.

Garett blushed. "I could have an intern," he muttered. "You don't know."

"Yeah, well, these postcards are pretty cool."

"Wait," Ken said from the corner, and both Garett and David cringed. "Wait," Ken said again, sitting up and spitting the corner of the Funyons bag out of his mouth, from where he had finally torn it open. "You got, like, postcards?"

"Yeah," said David cautiously. "A lot of 'em." He got up and started sidling towards the door. "I gotta head out, Garett."

"And what do they say, though?" Ken demanded.

"David Hewlett, how are you so awesome," David and Garett said in unison.

"Huh," said Ken slowly. "Are you sure they're not for me? I got fanmail back in the day. A lot of fanmail."

"No, Ken," David said gently, edging out the rusted screen door. "I'm, uhm, pretty sure they're for me."

"Huh." Ken scratched at his stomach. "You want a funyon?"

"No, thanks." David made his escape with a sigh of relief, and headed to his car, whistling. He'd better call his agent when he got back to the hotel. He bet there were more cards today, even. Lots more cards.