On the Clock


brian_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif simon_icon.gif

Scene Title On the Clock
Synopsis Simon tries to get a job, Deckard tries to do the one he already has, and Brian tries to take a breather, all with dubious levels of success.
Date November 16, 2008

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.

Sizzling beef patties and the whir of an ancient soda machine make for most of the ambient noise where Simon is sitting. He's the lone patron at the counter, though there are plenty of tables filled with customers. In front of him is an application for employment that's half-filled out. He's taking his time and enjoying a root beer float in the process. After sucking some sugary goodness down, he picks up a pen, clicks it, and starts to fill out the next section.

If not for the fact that Deckard had to go out and buy a new black coat for some mysterious reason involving bullet holes and 'dry clean only,' he might pass for homeless. He's looking a little leaner than usual, and between the hoboesque cover of his stubble beard and the shadows around his eyes, well. It'd be hard to blame anyone who jumped to the wrong conclusion anyway.

His progress for the counter is direct. With people actually here, he has no interest in trying to vie someone out so he can take their table. So it is that he sinks down onto a stool next to Simon and drags off the knit black of his cap, still ignorant in his relief over the place having a working heater. "Coffee."

Actually writing out the details of his intern work at Stillwater Security is a little weird for Simon because he never actually considered a legitimate job experience. It was just something to help him graduate with honors. Still, it's his only real work experience. Once he's finished scribbling out tidbits on his job responsibilities there, Deckard takes a seat next to him.

He glances over, and at first he doesn't recognize the guy. After a double take, though, he jumps and curses louder then he should at a place of possible employment. "Crap! You!" He reaches out for his float as if it might either get snatched from him or make for a useful weapon.

When Simon jumps, so does Deckard, if on a weird, sleep-deprived delay. Rather than curse, he just makes a grab for the interior of his coat, eyes wide until…the information they're sending to his brain actually sinks in. Then they narrow. "You." Their mutual affection for each other so established, he pushes down whatever he was in the process of pulling out and reaches for the coffee that's just been set in front of him and looks to Simon's float. And his application.

When Simon jumps, so does Deckard, if on a weird, sleep-deprived delay. Rather than curse, he just makes a grab for the interior of his coat, eyes wide until…the information they're sending to his brain actually sinks in. Then they narrow. "You." Their mutual affection for each other so established, he pushes down whatever he was in the process of pulling out, reaches for the coffee that's just been set in front of him and looks to Simon's float. And his application.

Simon isn't nearly as surprised as he should be when Deckard reaches into his coat. He just sits there are glares at the scruffy man for a moment. "What are you doing here, hmm? You look like crap. You would have been a lot scarier if I knew that the other night." With float still in hand, he leans into it to sip, without looking away from Deckard.

"I'm getting coffee." The coffee Deckard is about to sip is tipped helpfully towards Simon, just in case he needs a visual reference. "And hey! I do look like crap. Thanks for noticing." Cynicism bites bitterly over the edge of his cup. There’s no indication that it's faded in the time it takes him to sip, swallow, and set it aside again. "What about you? Have friends that work here?"

"No," Simon tells the man as he sets his big glass down on the counter. He lets go reluctantly, but still eyes Deckard warily. "I'm having a root beer float and *not* thinking about working here." He quickly flips over the application paper he's working on, not wanting Deckard to know where he works, because he's a scary man. Too bad the other side of the paper is actually the front side where he filled out his address, phone number, and social security number. "Do you look like crap because you dig up graves for a living?"

"No, because I don't dig up graves for a living, Simon." The name bit read easily enough from afar, Deckard has no compunctions about reaching across for the paper in full. It's an oddly kids-in-the-back-seat-fighting-over-a-comic-book kind of move.

"Oh, really," Simone begins, playing the annoying child card all too well, "So you just do it for fun then, huh? Looking for a girl to bring home to mom? Huh? Is that what you were doing?" Simon continues to glare, knowing full well how silly he's sounding. "What *were* you doing?"

"Simon Allistair. Seventeen years old. Likes root beer floats, washing dishes, and wandering around graveyards in the middle of the night," Deckard dictates as if reading directly off the sheet, apparently to the waitress working the other side of the counter. She gives him a look. "I was robbing graves. Right now I'm drinking a cup of coffee. Doesn't mean I drink coffee for a living."

Simon glances over at the waitress and wonders if this is going to affect the application process When he looks back to Deckard, he lets out a frustrated sigh and reaches out to snatch his sheet back. "And just because I'm applying to work here doesn't mean I like to do the dishes," Simon retorts witlessly. "So what's your name, anyways? I don't want to keep calling you gravedigger because then people will start to stare," Simon says before blatantly looking Deckard up and down. "More than they already will be."

The application is given up without a struggle. Deckard keeps his hand up as if still holding it just to be annoying, but beyond that, it's back to the coffee. "You should like what you do. Friendly working conditions and employee satisfaction increase worker productivity." A hint to whoever else happens to be listening to this conversation right now, perhaps. He looks hard across the counter, studying the security system Brian totaled the other night, and finally drops his empty left hand back down to drum long fingers against the side of his cup. "My name is Flint."

From the back, finally having all the dishes from their last rush washed, Brian is finally ready for his break. Taking off his brown apron, he tosses it on the counter as he walks out into the lobby of the Diner. A plate of food in his hand ready to be gobbled up. He pauses as his eyes set on Deckard, and his hand instinctively balls into a fist. Though after a moment he is able to relax, though he just stands there a moment, a tad awkwardly, staring at Flint.

"That's a funny name," Simon states very simply. He doubts that even Flint would say otherwise. "And, um, what about all that was going on up here?" He looks over at the man and points the general areas his own eyes. "What was that?"

Deckard's brow furrows. No it isn't. It's his name. So says his expression, and probably his tongue if it had a chance before Brian's skeleton starts moving for the front. He hesitates, even going so far as the glance back at the door over his shoulder, but he couldn't make it there in time anyway. So it is that he's left to stare awkwardly back. "Swamp gas."

Staring back at Flint, a long awkward and angry moment passes as Brian watches the woman. He heard Deckard was looking for Helena. He doesn't know what to think of the man. Besides beating the shit out of him, they don't have much of a relationship. But Abby seemed to like him well enough. The young man goes over to the counter to conveniently set himself next to Simon and Deckard to consume his meal.

Simon rolls his eyes and can't help but crack a grin at the man. If he wasn't such a creep and didn't almost maybe shoot Simon, the kid might actually like him for his sarcasm. Instead, he really doesn't like him because of everything else there is about him. Sorry! As Brian sits down, Simon glances over and the turns to his own float, not knowing what else to say. "Well this is awkward," seems to be the best thing.

Maybe Deckard is just an acquired taste. Like anchovies. With only half of his cup of coffee left, he decides that now would be a fine time to pour a packet of cream into it. This gives him a good excuse to look directly down and forward rather than at Simon or Brian. "Yep."

Taking his fork, Brian stabs at the steak on his plate and wrestles with the meat until he severs a bite size piece. He glances sidelong at Simon and Deckard and then back to his food. Besides the chirped comments silence and the ever present spirit of the awkward reigns over the three. Slipping the food into his mouth, Brian chews though obviously he feels as if he too needs to add his sentiment. "Mhmm" As if confirming the other two men's suspicions. Yep, it is awkward.

"Anyways, I think I'm going to go sit over there," Simon turns and eyes a small booth near a window. "Yeah, I definitely am. Bye!" He grabs his pen, his work application, and the rest of his float and stands up. "Oh, and it was really good seeing again." Simon says it with so much sarcasm that even he is a little put off by it. And then he's off to go be by himself, or at least farther away from Flint.

Definitely awkward. Flint sniffs as the cream trickles to a strained stop, sinuses a little out of whack thanks to the cold and not sleeping. He turns his head to watch Simon find somewhere else to sit, and eventually swings it around more slowly to look at Brian next to him. There is a deep breath drawn. The kind people suck in before they jump off a cliff. "You don't have to feel bad, you know. Abigail took me back to her apartment and fixed me right up."

Brian's response is very quick once Deckard finishes his piece. "Why would I feel bad? You're the one who acted like an idiot." The younger man quickly retorts. While continuing to nourish himself on delicious free food that might not be free were his manager present. "People are after her. After us all. You should've told me what was going on." He mutters.

Deckard winces. Hard to tell why. It looks almost like a nervous tic, and he has to take a little time to stir at his coffee before he starts talking again. "You should have told me what was going on. I asked nicely." The first few times, anyway. "How the fuck should I know who's after you, or why? I was trying to help."

"Why should I tell you?! You're some old creepy guy who looked like you had been humping zombies." Hmm. Interesting, sometimes comments like that just fly out. There's no taking it back. "I am sorry I beat the crap out of you. A little bit. Maybe I was a little excessive." He admits.

"Words can hurt." Deckard also has a small problem with words flying out of his mouth unfiltered. He looks to Brian's plate, clearly calculating the odds of whether or not he can get something off of it without having to pull a fork out of his hand for the effort. But. No grab is made. His thoughts turn elsewhere. "Like I said, Abby and I got it all sorted out. On her couch."

Looking at Deckard's eyes on his plate, Brian makes a reluctant sigh before leaving the fork on the plate and pushing it over in front of the man. A kind gesture? Or perhaps it's all doused in poison. "Are you trying to insinuate you did Abby? No offense bro, but I kinda have you pegged for the less classy more hookery type of girl rather than Abby. She's got all her teeth and she's disease free, I don't think she's your type." The man explains before bringing his hand back.

"Who's insinuating?" Flint takes the offered plate as naturally as if he'd just ordered it. Eating handouts is easier when you're running short on dignity anyway. No problems using Brian's silverware either. "I'm an opportunist. She likes me." Fork to steak, knife to fork. "What was she going to do? Call the cops? Seems to me that they might be really interested in talking to her anyway."

"Likes you in a, Oh my God that poor old scraggly dog, sort of way." Brian informs. "She doesn't need the cops. If she needs something dealt with, I have more than enough friends.." Wink. "I'm not giving you that piece back by the way. So consider that food payment for it." Pat pat on the back as the young man stands up. "Have a great lunch, Dick-ard." With that the young man makes his way back to the kitchen.

Deckard rolls his eyes. He isn't that pathetic. Honestly. Conversation over and back patted, he finally succeeds in sawing off a piece of steak so that he can squint at it at closer range. "Brian Fulk," he tells the steak. The waitress looks at him like he's crazy again. Not to be deterred, he just lifts a brow at her and sets to eating. "Works at the Nite Owl, has many friends. Potential hero complex, kind of stupid. And an asshole."

Deckard is bugged. The contents of this log are ICly subject to the Vanguard's scrutiny.

November 16th: New Terrorist in Town

Previously in this storyline…

Next in this storyline…

November 16th: Have Wheels, Will Fall
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