On the Antics of Imps

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Scene Title	On the Antics of Imps
Synopsis	Dixon lives with one, which recently got into his clothes. Laura used to be (read: is) one.
Date	December 21, 2008

Linderman Building: Break Room

It's a lovely, snow-frosted, cold morning in New York City, which is why Laura was wearing her coat when she came in. The powder-blue garment is now draped over the back of a chair, however, rather than the young woman's slight form. It's still on the early side for lunch, which is why she has the break room all to herself at the moment. A laptop occupies the table space in front of Laura's chosen chair, a collage of landscape images fading in and out of view on its screen; a cloth bag, apparently containing mostly edible items, slouches beside it. The woman herself is over by one of the counters, waiting with poor grace for the microwave oven to finish doing its thing.

Whatever it was that Dixon was doing before or on the way to the Linderman building is over and done with; right now, he has since huff-puffed his way inside from the cold. Thankfully, he has only left a trail of snow on the front mats- but the glaze of snow on his black winter coat sprinkles behind him all the way into the break room. He has only come here first mainly because it is the closest place to go where he can probably take off his coat and not be in the way of someone actually here for a more important purpose.

Dixon's entrance into the room is heralded by the sound of boots, and some deep-voiced muttering about the state of the sidewalks outside. He scans the room as always, habit making sure that the bodyguard offers anyone in the room before him some sort of greeting. Today it just happens to be short and lazy, but still a courtesy. "Morning." Dixon has never liked the cold, despite quite possibly being like a polar bear, so it also happens to sound like more grumbling.

Footsteps distract Laura from glowering at the too-slow machine, and she greets Dixon's appearance in the doorway with an altogether too bright and cheerful a smile. "Good morning!" She peers around him to look at the snow melting into the carpets, then back up to Dixon's expression. "Or maybe not, I guess. But hey, it could be worse!" Somehow, surely. Laura is distracted again by the beeping microwave, whipping back around to stab the button that makes the annoying noise stop. "Oops! I usually don't let it go all the way."

"That one almost never goes enough on the first try, anyway." You would think, with all that the building has to offer, that they could get a microwave on the first floor breakroom that also happens to work correctly. The big man finds one of the empty chairs in order to literally dump his coat onto it; said coat envelopes the poor thing, and now he is left in jeans and a plain, dark blue sweatshirt that even looks to be a size too big for him. It might as well be a tent to Laura. As he turns, on the back, there is a corner where the blue is suddenly disrupted by a distinctly orderly array of little plastic studs. One row of blue, one row of clear, one row of pink, green- from biggest to smallest starting from the bottom. He's obviously been Bedazzle'd, but it is also possible that he has absolutely no idea.

The tupperware bowl of soup is extracted from the microwave and briefly taste-tested — before being returned to the interior of the 'oven'. "You're right," Laura states, entering another couple of minutes and standing back so she can continue the conversation while the machine hums. "I don't exactly use it much; thanks for the tip." Turning to look at Dixon… the young woman is quiet for about the space of two heartbeats, then giggles, the hand that isn't holding the spoon coming up reflexively to cover her mouth. "Looks like an imp got ahold of your shirt," she remarks cheerfully.

Usually when people are faced with broken things, the last thing they do is giggle- Dixon has been rifling through his coat pocket up until that moment, where he turns his shoulders to look at the woman across the room. What now? His eyebrows knit together for a split second before he lifts an arm to pull the end of the shirt where he can see it. Dixon flattens his lips instead of speaking, having an internal debate over whether it would be worth it to just go on wearing it all day. "Looks like it." His eyebrows lift now, and the large hand lets go of the edge of his shirt. "…'Least now I know to check my closet, huh?" It's an uncommitted attempt at early-morning humor, and now the man seems to be slightly self-conscious about his decoration. Could be worse?

The hand falls away to reveal a bright, broad grin. "It's kinda cute," Laura observes. Probably the death-knell for that particular shirt. "Or at least check the back of the shirt before you put it on," the woman agrees. "Hey, it could've been pink hearts and flowers. Or something out of My Little Pony." She doesn't know much about Dixon, but the decoration looks like something a little girl would do. "Reminds me of some of the stunts I pulled on my dad when I was younger," Laura adds, before stopping the microwave. This time prior to it beeping insistently.

Dixon resigns to wearing the shirt for the rest of his day. It's probably not worth the trouble to change or be colder taking the layer off. He smiles warily back at Laura, a hint of a chuckle in his throat. "Takes an imp to know one, does it?" Now that he looks at Laura better, she does sort of seem pixie-like. "It probably could have been worse. She makes me sort my things by color, and one of my best suits is navy blue." There may be a small cringe in his rumbling voice.

At that, Laura laughs outright. She carries the soup back over to her chair, grinning at Dixon as she sits down. "Oh, we're usually recognizable enough… but I'd say like knows like, yes indeed." Both pale brows arch as Dixon continues, the young woman idly stirring her soup because eating it now would require breaking up the conversation. "Ouch. Yeah, that would be bad." Except that grin doesn't go away. It gets more crooked. "When I was really little… I fixed up one of my dad's suits the way I thought a stage magician ought to look. He didn't notice until he realized the audience was laughing a little too much."

Dixon makes his way over to the coffeemaker, which happens to be nearby the microwave; he was waiting, you see. Luckily, the coffee in the machine is still hot, but not cooked to death. "A magician? What did you think one was supposed to look like, exactly?" The man gives her a smirk over one broad shoulder, which fades after his brows lift up in question. "They're already decorated, aren't they? That poor man." Smirking turns into a laugh, which might have actually rattled the cupboard door when he leaves it open. Or that could have been the bad hinges.

Laura colors just faintly, for all that she started this subject of conversation and is still grinning unrepentantly. "His was, a little, but not the way I wanted. And I, of course, was the authority on everything at that age." She finally eats some of the soup, not wanting it to cool down too much.

"So was I." Dixon gathers a styrofoam cup of caramel-colored coffee before sitting down opposite Laura at the round table. He's not quite warmed up yet, at least in terms of coming in from the cold weather. The metal legs of the chair squeak on the floor, but there is not going to be any seat-crushing this morning. "I have nine siblings. I was tenth. The baby. Everything I said, went." Dixon was little once too. Really.

"Hah. I bet," Laura replies, in between mouthfuls of soup. "I was an only child, which amounts to almost the same thing. Dad pretty much doted on me. So did Mom, when she was around, but that wasn't much. Not after I was about five." She grins across the table. "Meant he was the only possible target of my attempts to 'help', too."

"Kids usually mean well. You sound like you did. I know I did, not counting that time I put a bag of frogs in my sisters' room." Dixon hides a flat look partially behind the cup of coffee. "I think I'm continuing that circle of doting. I can't decide if that's a good or bad thing." Doting is only bad when it entitles someone when they grow up, right? Anthea isn't grown yet(nor may ever be, technically), so maybe he can get away with it moreso than his mother or Laura's father.

"I hear sisters are cruel and mean creatures, especially to little brothers," Laura points out, lips twitching in an utterly vain attempt to suppress her smile. "So that may've been justified. Though I'm certainly not in a position to know!" She eats some more of the soup, looking across the table at Dixon. "Well, we came out all right, didn't we?" she asks, waving the hand not encumbered by a spoon at the both of them. "I shouldn't think it's something you ought to worry about."

"I suppose so." Dixon doesn't know her that well, really, but if she can say it, maybe she's right. "As much as we can get." He does make a scoffing sound, but maybe it's a cough. "My sisters are evil creatures, but I love them anyway. Sort of like little, yippy dogs."

Laura does cough. It might have something to do with the soup she just inhaled. It takes her a minute to get that straightened out, but no harm done. "You like those floormops?" she asks, once over the whole 'soup is not for breathing' lesson. Another twitchy, impossible-to-hide, impish smile. "I'll have to remember that."

"Why does everyone look at me funny when I say that?" Dixon leans back in the chair, giving Laura a brand new expression of mock offense. "I'd rather have a little furry friend than a guard dog. I can guard myself, y'know. Not that guard dogs can't be your friend." He has his roundabout explanations for it.

"Well, I don't know about everyone, but I can't stand the noisy little things," Laura answers, with a slightly overly-dramatized tone of disgust. "They're cute enough, mostly — until they open their mouths." A pause for eating ensues, but the spoonful of soup only makes it halfway to her lips. "If I wanted a little furry friend, I'd get a cat," she concludes. "But that's just me."

Dixon smiles as he finishes his coffee and stands back up. "You do seem like a cat person. I have a pug." Not a yappy dog, really, but it goes to show that he is true to his likes and dislikes. "I'm not sure if that says anything about me, though." The cup in his oversized hand plunks down into the trash bin as he sidles a step towards it.

"Well, thanks," Laura says, grinning at Dixon. She finishes off the soup, then looks up at him as he continues. "Hm. You know, I'm not sure it does, either. But that's a decent one to have," the young woman concludes with a cheerful smile. In her so-very-not-authoritative opinion.

Dixon only smiles again before he picks up his still damp coat from the extra chair. "He's a menace, but that's okay." He gives a heavy shrug of both shoulders. "I hope you have a good day, Laura." See, he does remember her name. It's worth remembering names. "I have some appointments to keep." Dixon slings his coat up over the crook of an elbow, lifting his free hand in a small wave as he moves to leave the break room.

"Likewise, Dixon," Laura wishes, her free hand waving in his direction as he heads for the door. "I hope the appointments aren't too boring." Boredom being the worst fate in the world, of course. As he departs, she pulls an apple and a knife out of the bag and proceeds to slice the fruit.