Not My Type


felix_icon.gif satoru_icon.gif

Scene Title Not My Type
Synopsis In which Felix winds Satoru's spring.
Date May 18, 2009

The Nite Owl

The Nite Owl is a survivor from ages past - one of those ancient diners with huge plate glass windows, checkerboard linoleum floor, and a neon owl over the entrance that blinks at those entering. Inside, there's an L-shaped main counter, complete with vintage soda fountain and worn steel stools. All of the cooking is done on the ranges ranked against the rear wall. The outer wall is lined with booths upholstered in cracked scarlet vinyl, tables trimmed with polished chrome. Despite its age, it's been lovingly maintained. The air is redolent with the scent of fresh coffee, vanilla, and frying food.

Fel's not in his usual suit, but a Dynamos jersey, and a pair of jeans. He's loitering in his favorite booth, with an open copy of "Scaramouche" on the formica of the table before him. There's a cup of coffee shoved off to one side, disregarded.

Satoru, on the other hand, is only just arriving in the diner - rollerblades on his feet, messenger bag thrown over a shoulder, though he pulls it off as he glides in. He himself aims for a barstool, setting the strap of his bag along the seat before sitting on it, lifting a hand and ordering. "Yo. Coffee." Pause. "And a cheeseburger or somethin'." Any complaints about the 'blades are ignored.

Felix looks down at them. But doesn't complain himself. Not his problem. "Courier?" he wonders, looking up again at the young man.

Satoru's coffee is delivered soon enough, and he adds some cream to it, stirring idly with provided spoon. The question prompts him to turn in his chair, leaning back against the bartop. "What's it to you?" He's got a pair of thin black gloves on, fingers cut off, and they go down into his sleeves.

"Nothing but mere curiosity," Felix admits, cheerfully, as he stirs cream into his coffee, and then starts spooning in sugar.

Satoru frowns. "Right. Yeah." He sips his coffee, watching Felix for a moment, distrustfully. "Curious about what?" Someone is spoiling for a fight.

Felix indicates the rollerblades by lowering his head, nodding at them. "Why the 'blades, if you're not a courier," he reiterates, a little patiently. His own tone remains mild, as if it's nothing to him, either way.

"Right. Yeah." Again. "I bet that's what yer lookin' at." Satoru turns just enough to set his coffee back down, then faces Felix again, elbows on the bar. "I ain't your type, man."

The Fed's face is momentarily a study in being nonplussed. And then he breaks into laughter. "Nah. You're right. Not big enough," he says, chuckling, and looking back to the menu.

And apparently that is enough to get 'Toru in the right mood; one hand clenched into a fist, he actually shakes a bit as he replies, through gritted teeth, "What the hell you just say to me, white boy?"

Felix looks over again, and now there's a faint thread of annoyance in his voice, wrinkling his brow. "You aren't my type," he says, matter of factly. Hey, they're in the middle of Chelsea. "I like bigger men than you are," It's not delivered as an insult.

Satoru is probably hearing an innuendo that isn't intended. "Okay." His tone is clipped, but facial expression restrained irritation, at best. "Come on, outside, you wanna take me, I can take you." Probably a poor choice of wording.

Felix reiterates, tone going flat, "I just told you, I agree that you're not my type. And I'm sure as fuck not hard up enough to go fucking you in some back alley," He's laid down the menu, gently. Now it's his turn to misunderstand.

Satoru shoves himself out of his seat, grabbing his bag and throwing it over his shoulder. "Oh hell no." He glides across the diner to where Felix is sitting and grabs the man by the shoulder. At this point he's probably this close to getting kicked out anyway. "Outside. I don't wanna make these nice people have to clean up the mess I'm gonna make, boy."

"Do you want to get busted for assaulting a cop?" Felix wonders, tone gone poisonously sweet. He tugs up the side of his jersey to expose the pistol riding on his hip. "Think about that real hard, I'll give you a minute or two."

Satoru's grip tightens a moment, on the shirt rather than Felix himself, but now it isn't out of anger - indeed, the boy's face has gone almost as white as his knuckles. For the duration of that offered minute, he almost seems to have stopped even breathing as he stares down at the gun.

Felix's grin is mephistophelean, really. "You're a very lucky man," he says, amiably, looking up at Satoru like this is the mother of all jokes. "Because I'm in a good mood. If you apologize and calm down, you get to finish your dinner and not be dragged downtown in bracelets."

Of course, Satoru's a wee bit too terrified at the moment to even be irritated that he got caught in a trap. The offer does finally get him to blink once or twice, and he swallows slowly. "I.." Another gulp there. "…I gotta go." And just as abruptly as he arrived, he turns to leave.

"Sit. Down." This time the smile's gone, and it's no longer funny. Fel's gaze has gone cold, as he eyes Satoru. The diner's staff are all watching them, with varying degrees of humor in their faces.

Satoru actually sits down almost instantly, at the seat across from Felix, looking down at the table, hands folded in his lap. After a moment's thought, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a few Washingtons. "I didn.. I wasn't gonna steal the coffee," he mumbles, setting the money on the table to prove it.

Felix looks at Satoru over the rims of his glasses. It's not a friendly expression. He laces fingers around his own mug, which is now only the palest tan. "I'm sure you weren't," he says. "What was that about?" He looks Satoru over patiently, as if trying to determine if he's on something or not.

Satoru continues looking down at the table; the very picture of meekness. "Nothing," he mumbles, quietly. At least most of the people have stopped staring by now. "I got anger management problems, I guess." After a pause he adds, hesitantly, "Sir."

"You're lucky I'm a cop," Felix says, stretching the meaning of the word a little. "I coulda been some random jerk with a gun you just picked a fight with," He glances around the gleaming chrome of the diner. "You know they had a mass murder here, back in the late forties? Not long after the war. Supposedly a gang shootout."

Satoru shrugs, at that. "So?" He seems genuinely unconcerned at the notion, though not necessarily suicidal. The question is answered with a brief shake of his head. "Didn't know that," he answers, with no real interest. "You didn't show me a badge." Could still be a random jerk.

It's worse than a cop. It's a Fed. Fel glides a hand into a pocket, produces the wallet with badge and ID, which he opens - holds beside his face and grins, mockingly. Like he's inviting Satoru to compare face versus photo. It's not the NYPD gold shield though - the FBI's.

Satoru looks up and goes pale again, resumes his previous stammering. "Y.. y'know, I really gotta get going, it's late, y'know?" He doesn't make any move to get up, this time. "I mean, I didn't think you were lying, I was just sayin'.. and my ma's gonna be worried, right?"

Felix flips the wallet closed, tucks it away with that reflexive ease. "I'm sure," he says, sarcasm etching his tone. "Get on," he says, nodding at the door.

In a bit of a tumble of motion, Satoru gathers up his things - leaving the four dollars on the table - and gets to his feet, managing not to fall over on the 'blades. "Yeah, worried," he reiterates as he makes for the door. Although once he actually gets it open, he gains enough courage to add, "All you guys are dicks, you know!" before exiting.

The door which abruptly slams shut and refuses to open, as if suddenly locked. Because behind the little Federal ID that makes Fel look like a memberof the Addams family is his Registration card. He rises, very deliberately, and saunters towards Satoru. "Really?" he wonders, tone arch.

Satoru pulls on the door, trying to open it. Almost desperately. "W—Well, maybe not all you guys," he stammers, looking hurriedly between Felix and the door handle. Open, dammit. "I… I gotta keep up my cred, y'know?"

Felix gets close. Too close. Nose to nose, like he's proving a point. "What cred?" he says, like that latter monosyllable is a dirty word.

Satoru lowers himself down a bit as Felix gets closer, and he almost whimpers. A small, creaky sound escapes his throat, at least. "S… street cred, y'know…?" Granted, he's just a fledgeling baddie, but still. "I just.. it doesn't look good…" He's looking for an explanation but not finding any good one. "…I didn't mean anything byitpleaseletmego."

"What's your name?" Felix asks, taking a step back. He's trying not to snicker at the idea of this guy having any sort of street cred. "Hell, you're not even old enough to drink,"

"Okada," is Satoru's immediate reply. "Toru Okada." It's a lie, but it fits well in his mouth - and part of it is accurate, anyway. "I'm 21 in August!" he adds, defensively and without thinking. "Okada's the family name," he adds, in case Felix is familiar with Japanese naming conventions and the fact that he said it backwards by such standards.

Felix persists, and says, gently, "Your ID?"

Satoru shakes his head. "I don't drive and I ain't 21 so I don't got a reason to have one, right?" That one is true, at least. As some form of proof, he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and opens it; nothing but cash. No proof he doesn't just keep it at home, but there you go.

The Fed takes another step back. His expression is still suspicious, but he's lost that edge of anger. "Better go, kid. I see you here again, you'll spend sometime downtown,"

Satoru slips the wallet back into his pocket with a sigh, turning back to the door. "I ain't hardly in this parta town anyway," he grumbles as he practically tears the door open, almost tumbling out of the diner. All too happy to get the hell out of there.

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