Participants:
| Scene Title | Bacon To Go |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A speedster is invited to an actual home cooked breakfast but balks at the offer before getting a little more than a taste. |
| Date | April 19, 2011 |
Eltingville Blocks — 609 Tennyson Drive
chnk-chnk-chnk
The sound of the spade swiftly pounding into the ground echoes through the empty neighborhood. It's rather early in the morning, much too early for decent folk to be up and about but the room mates that she's worried about are either up already or haven't gotten home yet. Delia's alone in the yard with a bunch of plants.
A sky overcast by grey clouds hasn't deterred her in the slightest, she's dressed weather appropriate. One of her room mate's frayed brown sweaters swims on her thin frame as she spikes the end of the shovel into the hard ground. Either it's dirt covered concrete or it's just not warm enough to dig into, therefore too cold to plant. Too bad th redhead doesn't know that.
Since she's come to Eltingville, Daphne tends to keep to herself, taking any walks or "runs" in the early morning or close to curfew when there are less people around. She isn't a blur of motion but instead walking at "normal" speed. Her usual colorful clothes have been replaced by whatever castoffs she's been given — a pair of faded black sweat pants she's cut off just below the knee, a gray t-shirt, a grayer hoodie that hangs loose around her form. Once-white and now gray tennis shoes complete the drab apparel; the only thing bright about the speedster is her hair, the platinum locks more disheveled than usual and growing out by a couple of inches at the scalp.
As she passes the yard, she frowns. "You need better soil," she offers. "Don't put them in that dirt. It's got too much clay, maybe."
A look of dismay crosses the young redhead's features as she pulls up the spade again and glances over her shoulder to spot the speedster. "Oh— uhm.. Really?" Delia turns then and stares at the collection of plants that she's gotten ready for planting. "I looked at the card at the market and it said something about a zone… I thought they'd be okay here." She didn't think to check the soil she'd be putting them into though.
"I'm Delia," the introduction is a shy one, spotting the ankle bracelet around the other woman's ankle. "A-are you.. uhm…" There's so many ways to finish that and the dream walker seems to be trying to sort out the right words to actually do just that, "hungry? Or thirsty?" Not dangerous, that'd be too easy. "I have breakfast inside, if you're hungry. Better food than they serve at the community center."
The small speedster pushes too-long bangs out of her eyes, peering up at the tall redhead. "They'll grow here fine, but that dirt is just dirt, and not very rich from the looks of it. I doubt anything's been planted here since before the bomb. You might have Chernobyl-green roses if you don't add something better to the mix. It's easy enough a fix. Dig your holes and then go to the home and garden department of whatever-mart and get some bags of soil."
She glances over her shoulder down the road toward the center she was headed to. "I … don't think you want me in your home, but thanks. I'll go play Oliver Twist like a proper urchin." There's a smile at that.
There's a downward twist to the redhead's lips and a defiant lift to her chin when Daphne depreciates herself enough to presume that she wouldn't be wanted as company. Then a brief flick of the dreamwalker's eyes toward the door before she shakes her head and puts the spade down. "I can have whoever I want in, there's no rule against it. We're all living here, right? C'mon, at least have some bacon or something." It's better than porridge is better left unsaid, she can't fault the government for trying at this point. She can just do better because she's not budgeting to feed an entire community.
"We have eggs too, I went to the farmer's market yesterday so everything's fresh." Or as fresh as possible, assuming the eggs weren't simply purchased at a store and marked up in price because of a fake organic stamp on the carton. "Eggs and bacon and hot coffee, way better than porridge, as long as you're not watching your weight." She pauses then and gives Daphne an uncertain look. "You're not, are you?"
Daphne is not in need of watching her weight — she's lost too many pounds while injured and in custody, and the food at the community center isn't helping to put it back on, even if she isn't running around the country at whim anymore. She looks doubtful and wary, a rabbit on the threshold of flight, but the siren call of eggs and bacon and coffee that hasn't been kept for too long in thermoses is too much, and her stomach growls despite her uncertainty.
"If you're sure it's not an inconvenience," she says stepping forward to offer her hand. "I'm Daphne." Once, she would have given a fake name — Millie her unoriginal favorite — but now there's no need to hide who she is.
"Nah, there's more than enough. C'mon in," Delia brushes her hands off on her jeans and steps up to the front door. "You're not scared of dogs, are you? My room mate has one but she's really nice… She just looks scary because she's so big." And part wolf.
The door is opened and Daphne is ushered into a foyer filled with antique furniture. The house looks recently renovated, fresh paint and new carpet still give that smell that it hasn't been broken in yet. The living room, much like the foyer, is loaded with old furniture and in one corner a standing harp with a plush stool seems to be the main feature. "Welcome welcome~ Careful of the carpet, Mister Logan doesn't like tracks."
A dark brow arches at the mention of tracks, and Daphne tips her head.
"Mister Logan? Are you a housekeeper or a nanny or are you Missus Logan and some sort of Stepford wife? Because if your Mr. Logan is worried about tracks, he probably wouldn't want you invited me in," Daphne says, speaking a mile a minute as she takes in the plush and posh surroundings, reminding her of her own penthouse somewhere in the city, all her beautiful objects collecting dust. "So maybe I just just… you know. Go."
"N-no… H-he just goes by Logan and.. uhm.." Delia stammers and looks down at the carpet as she furrows her eyebrows. A pinkish hue tinges her cheeks and she swallows audibly before finishing, a swift glance darted in the direction of the youngest house mate's room. "Mister is more polite than just Logan." The redhead's shoes are peeled off and kicked close to the door, either for someone to trip over on their way in or slide out of the way on their way out.
The scent of fresh coffee fills the hallway on the way to the kitchen. It's been sitting for a little while, but not long enough for it to taste old. "You're hungry and I'm going to be making breakfast for everyone anyway, I make some mean french toast." They might even have fruit, if it hasn't gone gamy yet.
Daphne's brows knit and she looks a little chagrined. For half a second.
Then she follows suit, kicking off her own shoes and leaving them near Delia's larger ones, then padding after her in socks. "I guess. Sorry. I'm not really into polite or, like, titles, you know? Does he call you miss or ma'am or any of that? If you're not his maid or housekeeper or something like that, it's just weird. Oh, I guess unless he's like old enough to be your dad or something… in case, ew, you're not sleeping with some old dude, are you? What's that like?"
Self-induced solitary confinement seems to have made Daphne a little starved for society.
"No, he calls me Delia," she emits quietly as she pulls the food from the fridge and piles it onto the counter. Her cheeks flush a brighter color as Daphne insinuates more activity in the house than normal. "And no, I'm not sleeping with an old man." She sleeps with a teenage girl. Platonically.
An upper cupboard is fished through before an unnecessarily large mug is pulled out. It looks big enough to hold two cups of coffee instead of just one and when Delia fills it, it's not to the brim but an inch or so of space left for additions. "There's some of that flavored creamer and milk in the fridge if you want and sugar's on the table." The liquor cabinets are probably host to a myriad of additions one could put into coffee, but they're not offered.
"Mister Logan isn't old enough to be my dad," she continues the conversation amiably enough. "I don't know how old he is but it's not old enough to be my dad. He's the sort of guy that… uhm… I don't know how to say it… He seems like a Mister to me."
The older of the two moves forward to take the mug and then the fridge to get the creamer. She pours a little in, and takes a sip, then moves to the table to add the sugar. "Sorry," she says as she eases into a chair. "I guess that was rude of me."
She guesses.
"You know, rich people aren't any better than the rest of us. They just have more money. Doesn't mean they need more respect, too," she offers around the mug and another sip as her eyes dart around. Some of this might look better in her own apartment — except for the fact she's now a law abiding citizen, and except for the fact her own home, courtesy of the government, is not much more than two tiny rooms that smell chronically of must.
"He probably doesn't need it," the agreement comes easily enough as the redhead pulls a frying pan from the drawer underneath the oven. It's hefted into a burner which is promptly turned on, allowing the heavy iron to heat. Who knows where Delia found the thing but it reminded her of one her mother used to have, so it found its way into the kitchen. "But I give it to him anyway because it makes me feel better to do it."
Delia unwraps the bacon from its wax paper package and begins to lay the strips side by side to sizzle in the pan. "I think they said this was apple bacon or something? I don't know.. it sounded neat so I got it. Plus I like apples so anything apple flavored is sort of a bonus. How do you like your eggs?"
"Okay, Pollyanna, whatever you say," Daphne says with a smirk and a shake of her head. "Just don't call me Miz or Ma'am or anything like that, because I'm not the sort, but then I don't think anyone would suspect I was."
She watches Delia with the pan and shrugs. "However you're making yours is good enough. And it's not apple-flavored; apple-smoked just means it was smoked using applewood, which I guess makes for better flavor, but not apple flavor, unless it's some kinda new bacon I donno about. But I'm from Kansas, so that's hard to do." She fidgets a bit in her seat, then gets up, a sudden blur behind Delia's back to hop up on the counter facing the stove.
"I think I'm going to make mine scrambled, I never really know until they come out of the egg. If the yolk pops, they get scrambled, if it doesn't then they're over easy." At least she tries to make them over easy, usually they end up being flat eggs. The bacon is pushed around the pan using a spatula until it seems cooked enough to lump to one side. Balancing the bacon on one side, Delia tips the pan over a small can in the sink, using it as a grease trap. "Really? So no apples?" She actually seems disappointed by this.
Bonus. Her guest isn't from New York, which earns Daphne a big crooked smile and a look of admiration. "Kansas! Seriously?!" The redhead seems much too excited about it. "I wanted to go there, my grandparents live in Texas but I've never been there. I was looking on a map once and if I drove to Texas, I would pass close to Kansas."
Daphne watches the cooking process, dark eyes darting from pan to redhead and back. "You didn't miss much. Not much but cornfields, really, at least where I lived," she says, swinging her feet. "I never was much of a cook, either. Tend to just grab something on the go." Usually her courier bag is full of protein bars, and she's been known to grab fast food out of people's hands — because she could.
Of course, those days seem to be behind her.
"So you live here deliberately?" she asks, glancing down at Delia's feet in search of an anklet.
Delia's head ducks down to follow Daphne's gaze and then she looks up at the speedster's face, giving a small nod. "Yeah," she gives a thin lipped smile and the shrug of one shoulder as if to play off the implication that she's either a sheep or a sellout. She might be both. "I was in trouble before but.. Mister Logan helped me out, helped fix everything that went wrong. Now I'm all legit and stuff." A small flash of teeth is an attempt to make the smile friendlier but it falls short.
"And… you don't live here willingly." A quick glance is given to the anklet before Delia's blue eyes meet Daphne's. After pushing the bacon around in the pan one last time, she puts down the spatula to grab a plate from the cupboard. A moment later, there's a plate of bacon beside Daphne and Delia's concentrating on an egg.
"Sounds like a sweetheart, this Mister Logan," says Daphne, reaching for one piece of bacon — if Delia hadn't intended her on eating before the eggs were through, why else would she have put it near the speedster? "No, I don't live here willingly, but hey, I'm all legit and stuff for the first time like ever, so I guess it's all okay, right?"
That was facetious.
And rhetorical.
The bacon is bitten into and Daphne scowls just a little as she chews before she tips her head at Delia. "So you can come and go? Do you think you could-" but her words trail off and she shakes her head. "Never mind."
“He really can be, when he wants to be.” Delia’s smile is smallish but the sparkle in her eyes when she talks about the man conveys a shy reverence. It’s only for a brief moment that she looks at Daphne and then she jerks the hand with the egg up and down, preparing for the worst before she cracks it into the pan.
The first egg slides out of its shell perfectly, the yolk unharmed by the smack against the side of the pan. There aren’t even any bits of shell to add a little of crunch to the breakfast. The second isn’t so lucky, perhaps because the redhead is just a little too confident when she cracks it against the side of the pan and it literally explodes all over the side, leaving just a drizzle of white sizzling in the pan.
“Uhm… scrambled it is…” Unless her guest would rather boiled. Boiled is easy, as long as she doesn’t mind a hard yolk. For the most part, clean up of the exploded egg is simple. What didn’t burn off and harden onto the enamel is quickly swiped away into the sink for later cleanup, leaving a long streak of orange over the counter. “What do you need me to get for you?” It could be an answer to the question, or it could be an offer for something breakfast oriented. Probably the first.
Asking for anything is hard for Daphne, given her reliance on others in her childhood. Accepting friendship is, as well, perhaps because she didn’t have one for far too long. She curls her hands around the coffee cup, staring at the mocha-hued liquid.
What she wants is small — a tiny favor to ask of a friend, but Delia is a stranger.
What she wants she could easily steal herself from one of the small pharmacies — but the weeks in Alaska have made her afraid.
Having to ask for anything reminds her that she is not self-sufficient here, but worse, that she is not brave enough — at least not today — to try to break free of that which binds her.
“Nothing,” Daphne finally says — the short moment of mulling a lifetime for her.
The coffee cup is set down. Another slice of bacon is picked up.
By the time Delia realizes Daphne is gone, the front door is closing with a dull thud.