Participants:
| Scene Title | Manly Coffee Drinkers |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Needing to get a hold of Russo, he finds an unlikely assistant in Kincaid and coffee too. |
| Date | December 18, 2010 |
Manhattan outside Studio K
He's occupied that same spot for an hour or so.
A solid bench and a cold seat indeed. It probably when numb sometime ago. A Starbucks sits not far from him — they are after all absolutely everywhere - so he at least has his gloved hands wrapped around some Vente something or another, a thin wisp of steam form the slot in the cup say he got it not too horribly long ago.
He's fairly bundled for the cold, a dark blue and gray striped scarf barely covers much of his mouth. His appearance is fairly scruffy, with thin locks of hair long enough to brush at thin brows and threaten to get into his eyes. With a brow jacket on and jeans, he looks more at home in some rustic setting then the middle of Manhattan.
Who knows if anyone has really noticed him in the hustle and bustle of a city gearing up for a major holiday, but Benjamin Ryans is there with a purpose. He is fairly stoic and seemingly a statue until he breaths out a white plume of air from his lung.
His purpose is possibly in the building across from where he's sitting. Blue eyes trail up the tall building wondering where Studio K might sit. He has a message for one of it's stars and with hope in delivering it, Ryans himself will find clarity in it.
Among the hustle and bustle of the crowd, one young man moves out of the building, dressed in sharp dark colors, clothing clean and professional, yet not entirely fancy. He has an obvious goal in his dark eyes, and that's the Starbucks across the street. Kincaid is adept in this dance across the street, avoiding traffic and other dangers and getting over to the other side. But even he makes a few mistakes every now and then.
A honk of a taxi cab distracts him, making him turn to look, as if tempted to apologize or yell, or perhaps just startled by the noise— That turn mid-step makes him miss-step, and forget that there happens to be a bench between him and the rest of the sidewalks.
The young man doesn't quite bump into the older man on the bench, but he comes close, wincing as his calf inpacts the solid seat, and looking over as if realizing he's disturbed someone, "Sorry— I didn't mean to…" he trails off, as pale eyes finally see the man sitting there. "Sorry. You… look like you're waiting for someone." For a short time there'd been pain in his voice, but it has a short shelf-life. He must rever fast.
It's the fact that he's almost bumped into that has Benjamin moving suddenly, though not something overly quick. A simple shift to the side and holding the large cup of coffee away with one hand, while the old is held up in case this stranger gets too close.
Of course, a holiday shopper in a hurry with an arm load of bags and boxes collides with Ben's poor cup wielding hand and sends the fairly full cup of joe to the ground. Oops! The contents spill out as the lid pops, sending up a puff of stream.
A look is send to the coffee, a thin press of lips follows. A brief moment of silence maybe for the lost source of heat before Ryans turns a slightly fake smile to Kincaid. "It's okay, it's a bit of a chaotic time. Holidays and all. Everyone rushing about." he offers in that softly spoken deep voice. "Accidents are bound to happen." His focus going back to the building as a few more people spill out of it, each given the same regard from a searching look.
Oh, that poor cup. Kincaid looks down at it mournfully, and then looks up at the taller man. "Well, I'm about to go buy myself some coffee before I go back to work— maybe I can buy you a replacement?" Since he helped contribute to the demise of that particular drink. "Kincaid," he offers, with a hand held out in offer. One that seems to show damage of years past. The scars are only just visible, but something in the way he holds it reminds Ryans of men who'd taken damage in battle.
It's faint, most people wouldn't see it. But most people haven't had the life experience that he's had.
He notices, but does his best not to stare. There was a time, Ryans had his own collection of scars, even his own hands. So when he reaches out to grasp that hand in formal greeting, he doesn't do so with typical firmness. "Benjamin." It's offered in return, with a firm nod of his head.
"And… no need on the coffee. I can get my own, though it doesn't look like who I was waiting for is going to show." Another lingering glance at the front doors of the building. "So maybe I should shuffle on home and give it a try later." He trails off, looking suddenly thoughtful, not betraying those thoughts through the display of facial cues.
"Say…" Ryans focuses on Kincaid fully then. "You wouldn't happen to know a man by the name of Bradley Russo?"
"You're in luck, I'm one of the assistant producers on his show," Kincaid says, though his grip isn't firm either, it isn't loose. It's somewhere in between. And odd at the same time. "If you're waiting for him, you are out of luck, he left already— but I can contact him, or give you a contact number if— I'll have to make sure you're not trying to serve him a summons to court or something, don't want to get fired."
He says that with a small smile tugging on the corner of his mouth, before he gestures. "I insist, though, Ben. Let me buy you a coffee while you tell me what you needed to see the face that keeps me in a job for." Though not the person he actually works for. The face is just what people see most.
"Come on, I insist," he repeats again, as if expecting protest, as he motions towards the Starbucks, coffee paradise.
That bit of news gets a little upward tick of Benjamin's brows, then a slight huffed sigh at the mention of Russo being gone for the day.
Just his luck, indeed.
The offer of a new cup of coffee is given serious thought now, his head turning towards the international coffee house, lips pressed together in a thin line. "No, I'm not serving him anything." A touch of amusement colors the tone of his voice. "He's the son of a… friend and he knows my daughter."
Finally, he shifts forward on the bench and pushes up to his feet. He still towers over the younger man by a few inches, when he straightens to his full height. He tugs at his jacket, settling it, before giving Kincaid a small smile. "Shall we?"
"You have similar…" Kincaid starts, before he shakes his head as if trying to dismiss what he was going to say. "Sorry, I just noticed that your eyes, they're nearly the same blue as… nevermind," he shakes his head, as if dismissing it as something rather silly. "How do you like your coffee?" he asks as he moves first into the Starbucks, looking at the small line at the counter. "I hope you're not decaf. It's like asking if you want meat with your chicken sandwich. It just doesn't seem right."
The idea of what he wants to order already sings in his head, and he slowly moves his hand as he waits in line, flexing the fingers, like someone who'd laid on their arm too long might try to work feeling back in place.
"It'd likely be safest if I give him a call and have him contact you. Never know these days— I'm sure he has a few enemies from recent broadcasts of the show."
Brows shift down, but don't exactly furrow, Ryans' mouth shifting up on one side a little. "There are a lot of blue eyes in the world." The comment dismissed easily, with a heavy amount of amusement.
"Just a mocha, nothing fancy and certainly not decaf." He likes his decaf, thank you very much. "Last time I asked for straight coffee they looked at me like I was some sort of alien." There is a small shake of Benjamin's head, hands clasped behind his back as he waits.
"As for contact. I can give you a number for him to contact me." Ben doesn't have a problem with that.
"You should try the Bold Pick of the Day, it's brewed, but tends to be a little different every day— but it doesn't use an espresso machine," Kincaid offers some sound coffee drinking advice, as he steps forward in the line. Names are called out, but since they haven't ordered yet, none are their own. Some must wonder if everyone gives their real name to get written on the bottom of the cup. Occasionally there's a pause when someone gets called, as if they forgot that was the name they'd given.
"There's also the original Pike Place Roast, named after the first Starbucks that ever opened in Seattle." There's a hesitant laugh. "Sorry, I'm a fan of coffee. Half comes from being a gopher for my job, but also— I just really like coffee, and anything with over three hundred millagrams of caffeine gets high points in my list…" Stepping forward, it's their turn, so he goes ahead and orders. "I'll take your Pike Place Roast today, and his coffee's on my bill too," he adds, pointing to the taller man beside him, before he fetches for, well, cash. Safest way to pay.
After Kincaid orders, there is a pause from the older man. He actually seems thoughtful, brows lifted. "I think I'll have what he is having." Seems the old man is living a little and ignoring the looks from the worker who saw him not all that terribly long ago.
"Quite the coffee drinker." Ryans comments without really any tone that says whether he is teasing or not. "It's impressive the knowledge you posses over something like that. My knowledge is limited. If it is coffee and it has caffeine, I'm good. Just has to keep me up and focused," he muses.
He shifts to the side while Kincaid pays, blue eyes taking a moment to study the young man. "So… I must ask." Gaze drifting to the hands of the other. "Were you in the service?" An innocent question, really… especially coming from a veteran.
While the mild praise has made him divert his extremely dark eyes while he pays and gives his name again to be called out when the cups are ready, Kincaid looks suddenly surprised when the man asks that question. "I— " he cuts off, hesitant in his surprise, before shaking his head. "No, not really… but I feel the same way about coffee. Most legal way to give your body a little added jolt to keep going all day."
With his name given, and the baristas getting to work on their coffees, he moves away a few steps to the napkins, offering some over to Ryans. "So how should Russo get ahold of you, Ben?"
The reaction and hesitation do not escape the old man's notice, invoking the slightest narrowing of his eyes. "Hmm… Could of fooled me," he rumbles, not overly suspicious since he's not always right in his observation.
Benjamin gives a soft hmm and takes the napkins. One is dropped on the counter and a pen extracted from within an inner pocket. "I'll give you my cell number."
Of course, being that it's a throw away phone, it takes him a moment or more to write the number down. His name 'Benjamin Ryans' is written above it. He starts to push it over, but then pulls it back so that he can add a note 'Need to discuss Delia. Urgent.' It's then folded in half and offered over.
"I appreciate the assistance, my daughter was rather insistent that I talk to him." Ryans manages a long suffering look of a father that has been put upon, but can't deny his girl.
"Mister Ryans— it's nice to meet you," Kincaid says quietly, trying to avoid reading the note, due to the possible private nature, but failing as he carefully folds it and places it in a shirt pocket under his long coat and jacket. He doesn't wear a tie, but his clothes are still very professional.
"Is your daughter okay?" he finds himself asking, perhaps against his will. "I don't mean to pry, but the urgency… I hope she's okay," he shakes his head. Considering Ryans' apparent age, one might picture his daughter being younger than she really is. Eighteen or younger.
"I'll make sure he knows to call you soon." Likely planning to call him later, after a moment, he pulls something else out of the same pocket and hands it forward. Kincaid August, Assistant Producer, K Studios. And a couple contact numbers. "If he doesn't get a hold of you soon, call me and I'll light a match under him until he calls."
"Pleasure." Ryans gives a slow tip of his head, giving him a small hint of a smile again, while tucking the pen away. "And… she's in a bit of a spot. Yes. She asked me to deliver a message to him." His tone suggests it's not something he'll impart to Kincaid himself. "With hope he has some insight."
The card gets a glance, before he takes it between two fingers and gives it a closer inspection. "I will certainly be calling you." Ryans sighs softly, eyes going to the door. "Shouldn't be necessary, if he and Delia as friends, but wouldn't be the first time I am wrong."
"You never know— sometimes he gets caught up in his work," Kincaid says, hearing his name called out, so he quickly moves back over to pick up the two good sized cups of coffee, complete with logo and design, as well as a name and specific order written on the side. "This should be less girly than the mochas, not that those are bad, they're just like drink desserts sometimes," he says with a lopsided grin. "I'm sure everything will go fine with your daughter." The reassurance seems simple and quiet, the usual thing someone might say. The first drink of his specially brewed coffee is much more than a sip, and he looks more relaxed rather quickly. "I should get back across before Kristen strings me up. I'll give Russo a call as soon as I'm upstairs and let him now. You may get a call within the hour," he adds, with movement toward the door.
"Thank you," Ryans rumbles out taking the coffee, though the sentiment covers so much of the situation. He hold the cup up in a sort of salute to the other man a small smile on Ryans' lips. "And I hope you are right."
There is a strained quality in his voice, the only real show of the deep worry he feels for his daughter, the rest hidden well away from the world. "My family mean the world to me, so I hope what you says rings true." Ben doesn't move to follow him, content to savor the warmth of the store, before starting the journey back to the safehouse. "Have a good day, Kincaid."