Participants:
| Scene Title | Cup of Joe? I DUNNO |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A long work day turns into a more honest conversation that Russo intends. |
| Date | December 23, 2010 |
Studio K — Russo's Office
Suddenly something sails through the air and lands right on top of the muttering man's head. Kincaid's good at aiming. The white and red can only be one thing, and sure enough as soon as the surprise settles, it's a Santa Claus hat that just got tossed at his head from the doorway. "I found that while getting more decorations— it looks good on you," he says with a lopsided grin, amused, even if it didn't land perfectly. It could use a lot of adjustment.
Oh hey, coffee.
He immediately makes his way to the pot, picking out a mug and pouring some in, before he asks, "Did you ever get ahold of that guy I met— Ben Ryans?" He words it as if he's not quite sure on the name. It has been a few days.
"I hope everything's okay with his daughter. Holidays are a bad time for things to go wrong with family."
”Hey hey hey— “ the hat actually lands over Brad’s eyes. His hands immediately go to work at adjusting said santa hat atop his head, he intended to wear one on the show anyways. For one particular segment. Now at least he doesn’t have to go seek one out, not that he would necessarily need to do that anyways. A single eyebrow quirks expectantly, “You callin’ me fat?” the tone is teasing though and his lips crack into a broad, albeit somewhat tired, grin. “We all know Santa has a few extra pounds.” With a minor cringe he shrugs.
The smile fades though at the mention of Benjamin Ryans. “I did,” he nearly sighs, but catches himself midway through the action. “Mister Ryans has… a predicament.” His throat closes around the word and the notion of having something go wrong with family he actually frowns. “She’s a good kid too. Carrots is a kid. I mean, she has that sheen to her still. Life hasn’t destroyed her yet… “ His jaw tightens a little.
"I believe the word is rotund," Kincaid says with a tease, before he hides his face behind the mug to try and keep from smiling, since the predicament is actually an important thing. Something bad happening to a friend, or a man's daughter, is nothing to smile about.
"Carrots? That's an interesting nickname— I didn't even get that it was a nickname at first." How many people call a friend by a tubar's name? Not many, he would think. "Does she call you Turnip? Cause you could probably pass for…" he trails off, realizing that, against his better judgement, he started to make a joke. "Sorry."
Moving a little closer, he sets the mug down. "How good of friends are you and his daughter?"
”Thanks for that,” Brad replies sarcastically. “And Carrots isn’t so weird. She has this… bright red hair. And…” he hmmms quietly, “I rename people. I’ve done it since I was a kid. It takes me awhile to settle into a name sometimes, other times it takes minutes. For Delia— Ryans’ daughter? I tried about four on her first before opting for Carrots.” He chuckles lightly, “And it’s not that original. My mother read Anne of Green Gables to me growing up. Nothing like the single mother home for a son.” He actually chuckles reminiscently on that note,
The merriment of the last words fade though at the thought of Delia again. “We’re not that close, but— “ he hmmms quietly. Finally, his voice lowers, “I care about her. A lot actually. I would do anything in my power to help her. She deserves that much from someone in her family."
"That explains the cooking," Kincaid says with a small smile, though the rest of the words actually catch more of his attention than anything else. Someone in her family. The next sip of his coffee takes longer than it may have needed, perhaps because he's trying to decide whether to speak up on that point or not. When the mug lowers, the decision must have been made. If it was a decision.
"So you're family? I'd— you and that man I met, you have very similar eyes. It surprised me at first, but…" he trails off. Perhaps it's hard to ask the question bluntly when, according to the man's own words just now, he'd been raised by a single mother.
The question writes an oh shit moment across Russo’s face that is short-lived but existent, if only for a moment. Russo’s lips curl upwards as the coffee mug is brought to his lips again. His hand rubs at his forehead as he stifles a smaller sigh. “Delia’s father is my father. We’ve talked twice.” There’s a small pause, “He was nothing more than a glorified sperm donor in the entire thing. Mom didn’t see fit to tell him.”
There's a quiet nod, eyes as dark as the coffee he drinks shifting down to stare at the liquid in the mug. When Kincaid looks back up, he has an apologetic tone, "Sometimes it's better that way. Some people are happier apart than they would be together. And it sounds like you and your mom had a good relationship, and you don't know what would have happened if he had been in your life— Better sometimes to stick with what happiness you got."
There's something personal about those words as he leaves his mug behind completely. "Helping out family is a good thing. Is there anything that I can do to help? I know I'm new to town, but— " An offer of help is probably the most he can give, from the way he gestures with his scarred right hand.
There's a frown that plays on the host's lips at the words. His life without his father had been interesting. Russo just hmmms. "It was a disservice to me in a lot of ways. At least… the not knowing part. Mom was a smart, successful, completely capable and competent woman. If she thought it was for the best," and based on his random encounter with his father over Delia, "in a lot of ways I trust her judgment. But the not telling me… " a smile edges his lips again, "I— " it's virtually public knowledge, pieces of his past, "I ran a fight club in the basement of my prep school growing up. I pulled many pranks. I was a hellion. And I got kicked out."
"They— my grandparents and mom— sent me to a shrink who" his eyebrows furrow "insisted I had some prominent daddy issues. Maybe I did. Do. Did." He's met Ryans now. Isn't that supposed to magically fix everything?
Russo then finishes his cup of coffee and lowers the mug to the non-desk. "I'm not sure there's anything anyone can do." He smirks, "Other than sleep. That's what I'm supposed to be doing." He runs a hand through his hair, "Sleeping."
"I know a few people with even worse daddy issues— if they can turn out half as good as you have, then they'll have turned out pretty good," Kincaid says with a small grimace, but also a kind of… attempt to reassure. It's difficult, for someone so younger to try and give reassuring words to the man who helps keep him in business. Not his boss, but still, the frontman.
"If you need to be sleeping, you should stop drinking that," he says, pointing down at the coffee. Like he's one to talk, he drinks enough for five people half the time…
"I can bring you some… I hate to suggest this… Decaf, if it would help."
"Do people drink decaf?" Russo smirks in return and then shakes his head. "I'm not going to lie, Mom probably did me a favour, but— " he groans lightly "— the mystery? It's not a strength. Knowing nothing does nothing to help a kid. The imagination is a powerful thing." With a tight smile he manages a somewhat amused, "Thanks," in return.
"And you're right. No more coffee." He shakes his head while his lips curl slightly downwards, "I guess some things are genetic. Work shouldn't come first." He clears his throat, "Like father like son… I shouldn't focus on this special so much. My attention needs to go to sleeping— " or, more specifically, the little family he still has.
"Mystery can be traumatizing," Kincaid says with a small nod, as if he does understand that. "But maybe you'll be there for your own son in the future," he says, before taking the cup away and turning to carry it a few steps away. No more coffee for you, Mister Russo.
With his back still turned, he suddenly adds, in a humorous tone, "I can go see if I can find a mallet. I've heard head trauma puts you to sleep faster than anything." With that finish, he turns to look back, grinning again. Yes, he's teasing.
The teasing isn't lost on Brad. In fact, it's met with a broad toothy grin. "I'm pretty sure there's that risk the recipient doesn't wake up either." His head shakes with a chuckle. "I always found a glass of rye did wonders to the same end. And it had that happy side effect of the altered stupor. Or tequila." Mmm. Tequila. But alas. "Not that I… I'm not… " he shakes his head, "No liquor for me." And that's why the coffee, it's his small substance relief.
"Well we couldn't have that. I think Kristen would fire me if I made it so you never woke up," Kincaid admits, though seems to hesitate at the talk of alcohol, and then relief as the alcoholic himself dismisses the idea. Another thing he likely thinks Kristen would fire him if he encouraged. "You can go home and get some sleep, and I can finish up here. Christmas special can't be too difficult to make notes and prepare for."
The Santa hat is adjusted on Russo's head again while the hosts pushes his chair away from his desk. Upon standing, he turns to his small coat rack and tugs his jacket over his shoulders. He doesn't bother buttoning it up yet, though. Instead he tugs the hat over his ears. "I'm going to wear this home and count the number of strange looks I get. If I get over ten I'll… get a prize. Like…" his lips turn upwards into a smile, "Dirk's scooter." Which nearly broke his nose a week ago. "And thanks for doing this. I just hate being ill-prepared." He steps towards the door and then looks over his shoulder, "Take it easy, Joe." Joe. As in coffee. This one may stick. And with that Kincaid is given a wave that looks more like a salute.