It was, undoubtedly, one of those weeks.

Jack opens the door, ready to shower after work and eat whatever Mark and Dan are cooking. The fire alarm is going off, which isn't a first, and it doesn't mean that anything is actually being burnt, per se, so Jack crosses his fingers in some semblance of a prayer that it'll be an actual meal.

Those hopes are dashed as the door swings open, to show a frozen Mark, an oven mitt on one hand and an unplugged straightener in the other, Dan clinging to his ankle and being dragged across the floor with his hair half straightened and half its wild curly self.

Mark's hair is half straightened, too, hanging limply and covering one eye.

They stare at one another, until Mark and Dan blurt, "It's Tuesday." As if that explains anything.

After a moment, Jack shuts the door and turns to leave.

He'll . . .pick up a pizza.

Phil opens the door, humming and smiling - Work had been lots of fun today!

That smile drops when he catches sight of the living room.

He scurries past to his room, ignoring Jack's weak pleas for help.

Hey, if he wanted to wrestle Mark and destroy the living room - and lose, might he add - then he could deal with it himself.

Mark opens the door with a sigh, exhausted. He hangs his keys by the door, ready to shower and nap.

He finally registers what his mind had tried so hard to shield him from.

"So. . .uh. . ."

"Don't." Mark rubs a hand across his face. "Just. . .don't."

He stomps past Jack, who's head turns to follow, dislodging more glitter out of his hair.

Mark was so not helping him vacuum that up. He caught sight of Sam, hiding on the book shelf. The little eyeball seemed to agree.

Dan climbs the stairs with a sense of trepidation hanging over him. It's not the first, nor will it be the last time that this has happened.

He drops his keys with a muttered curse, and stoops to pick them up. He goes to put the key in -

-and the door swings open to reveal Wilford, who grabs Dan by the shoulder and drags him in, muttering wildly.

Oh god this is going to be Tuesday again all over, isn't it?

When Jack manages to open the door, hefting the grocery bags into his arm, he merely sighs.

Phil is standing halfway between the kitchen and the 'dining room' section if there's living room, powdered from head to toe in flour.

He smiles sheepishly. "Ah ha, uh, I guess Dan was wrong; I could get paler?"

"Ah'm gonna hose you in th' kitchen."

". . .please don't."

It's not uncommon for chaos to descend upon the apartment - though rarely is it invited.

Sundays are the one saving grace of the week; if someone were to walk into the apartment today, they'd come face to face with Chica running around and happily panting while Jack chases her and Mark tries to call her, Dan being bowled over and licked while Phil is snorting with raucous, sputtered laughter.

And Sam and Tim are watching with rapt amusement, making their own comments (or noises, in Sam's case) as Chica leaps up, smacking into Jack and knocking him down; Phil is biting his tongue in amusement and Mark can barely breathe as Jack starts trying to gently get the big dog off of him. And there's happy and friendship with warmth kindness joy amusement-

It's a perfect way to end a week, before Monday comes and their door opens to chaos once more.