Plenty Of Bitching


bolivar_icon.gif buck_icon.gif isis_icon.gif minea_icon.gif

Scene Title Plenty Of Bitching
Synopsis Bilvar's bitching, Minea's bitching, Bucks cowboying it up and Isis is… well She talking with Buck.
Date May 28, 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.

There was a message left on Bolivar's answering service. Agent Dahl calling, information about your friend. Meet me at the owl at Seven this evening. The place, as usual is crawling with cops, college students who are in for the summer and locals. They're not hurting too bad here with the curfew that is still in place. Minea's at the counter, cup of coffee in front of her, keeping the door in view so she can spot the scarr'd individual that is Bolivar.

Scarr'd he is. Bolivar drags his burn-bracketed corpus in through the door in what appears to be characteristic ill temper, frowning, brows buckled down around a scowl, and no apparent fear that his face will get stuck like that. The lapels of his khaki-colored coat swing to and fro in hyperbolas of physical freedom that probably wouldn't be occurring if Logan Rose— the little Welsh spaniel traveling at his heel— wasn't apparently in something of a mood today.

"One fucking month off work, and she regresses like a fucking retard," he complains at Minea, clattering up to her booth at a stride that catches and hiccups unsteadily around the curly dog's small shape. "Horrible— snot— idiot fucking brat— Rose." As if on cue, the dog's body fishtails haphazardly, and her master almost trips over her torso lengthwise. The corner of Minea's table saves him.

Insofar as that Bolivar's hip bangs into it, a grinding halt that rattles matched salt and pepper shakers. He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, and hooks his foot underneath Logan's body to heave her a few inches off the floor, chastisement rasping his voice with teeth. "I'm trying to work," he tells the diminutive animal, in a voice that the cooks can probably hear behind swinging doors, "and you're being an asshole."

Hefted aloft, Logan Rose merely exploits her improved vantage point in order to peer upward at Minea, optimistically.

At about this time, Buck makes his way into the diner, which is the one place in the city he can now claim familiarity with. But he's greeted with an unfamiliar sight. There's a dog in here! Buck grins to see it and when he sits down on a stool, he does it with his back to the counter so he can put his fingers out toward the dog to smell. "C'mere, doggie," he requests in his unmistakeable Texan drawl. As if one needed clues as to his origin beyond his clothing.

Her hand comes out to save a precarious pepper shaker in danger of falling and making everyone sneeze. "Don't look at me Logan Rose. Getting no sympathy from me. We all gotta work to earn our food" Brown puppy eyes are lost on her. She's also not gonna reach over and scratch behind the animal's ears since it seems the animal's in disfavor with it's companion owner. But someone else will and good luck on that guy. It's the owners bark who's worse than the animals bite. "Back on the job yet or still on suspension?"

"I got a desk." By the sound of it, this is a fate somewhat worse than either suspension or the chaos of mob control, the likes of which had Bolivar kill babies in the first place the other month. Understandable, likely, given his health had been restored through preternatural means so recently. The last thing a magically cured invalid would want to be doing is shoveling shit on a wheely chair.

Thing probably annoys him even more than this thing with some Texan asshole calling at his stupid dog from the other side of the restaurant, though the level of his annoyance is, by now, at such wuthering magnitude that the smaller variations between more and one or two fewer aggravations is difficult to discern. Bolivar fires Buck a glance that probably would have slain a man of lesser accent. "Anyway," he says. He plants himself on the bench opposite Minea while Logan Rose gives the woman her rump, and proceeds to strain in Buck's direction on her leash, sniffing and oscillating her feathered tail optimistically.

Already the Owl is becoming Isis's usual nightly haunt. The scene wasn't as edgy as she might have hoped, but the bottomless cups of coffee and the new faces each night keep pulling her back. The little redhead slips through the door with a small paperback and a sketch book tucked under her slender arm, a worn, brown-leather bomber jacket added to her attire to keep out the night chill. She doesn't pause as she browses scans the slight crowd and slips into a booth as her attention hones in on the canine. The right corner of her lips pull up in a silent little chuckle as she makes herself comfortable and rolls her shoulders to slip of the jacket.

Buck isn't paying much attention to Bolivar's intimidating growl, being focused solely on the little dog. Since it's on a leash, Buck simply gets up and goes over to meet her, crouching right in front of the dog and giving it his hand first before he ruffles her ears without asking the owner's permission. "Well, hi there, Precious," he greets the dog happily.

"She woke up" That should be good news right? One hopes so. "I wish I could tell you what exactly she said but We pretty much switched places at that point. She was awake, I wasn't. But, has she gotten a hold of you yet?" Oh sweet Jesus, the guy is no… oh yes he is and Minea elbows Bolivar gently and juts her chin in the direction of his dog and it's erstwhile suitor. Isis doesn't make it in unnoticed to the Agent.

One of the few things Bolivar had retained through the worst of being— blown up by a nuclear man, included his scintillating sniper senses. One of the various things he had developed afterward included a paranoid investment in his precious dogs. He catches Buck's well-meaning intrusion out of his peripheral vision. Very, very slowly, with the mathematical precision of a needle verging into red on a pressure monitor, he turns his head. His eyes narrow. "Hey, gringo.

"There's some traffic you could play with instead, right outside," he says. His small hands rotate around the dog's lead, reeling Logan Rose in. She sits down, braces, but the drag of her master's superior strength apparently proves too much; her ringleted bottom sliiides along the varnished floor, much to the clicking chagrined of her blunt claws. If anything could distract him from the situation at hand, though, it would be news of Kayla Reid's departure from comatose. He glances at Minea, quizzically.

Isis lofts a thin brow as Buck's accent reaches her ears. She leans forward, trying to look around the waitress that seeks to take her order and get a good eye of the source. The man's southern appeal and bravery draw a slight grin across her features before her dark gaze turns up under the fan of her velvet lashes, directing her attention to the waitress. "Just some coffee, please." The waitress slips away, leaving Isis to set her papers aside and turn in her booth, stretching her slender legs out and crossing them at the booted ankles, getting a better view on the on goings of the little diner. "People aren't as friendly in these parts," she chimes up towards the cowboy, directing a pointed look at the canine's grumpy master before reapplying a simple smile on her pale lips. The waitress drops off a cup of coffee, to which Isis begins to add an unhealthy surplus of cream and sugar.

Buck drops his hands away from the dogs, raising his head so that he can see Bolivar's face. "Hey, now," the Texan says, "I ain't hurtin' anythin'. That's a sweet dog you got there; don't nobody wanna hurt 'er." He shows Bolivar his open hands. "Sorry." And he stands up, respecting the owner's right to say what goes for his animal. Possibly because he didn't see the treatment of the dog before he stepped in. Anyway, now somebody else is talking to him, so Buck turns and smiles at Isis. "Now, ma'am, that ain't entirely true. I jus' got here yesterday and everybody's been real nice to me so far. Man's got a right to look out for 'is dog, I reckon. My sister's jus' as touchy 'bout her fav'rite horses." He finds himself a seat near Isis since she seems to find him less offensive.

"It's a working dog Sir. A cop dog. You don't touch Cop dogs" Minea offers up, though a sight more friendlier than Bolivar would ever offer. The two others are watched, more out of the side of her vision as she turns back to Bolivar. "I got Evo'd. Nuff said. But I had someone I trust pass along the message. Best as I understand there was a scowl? Something like that. But she hasn't gotten a hold of you?" Could she tell him that she's working as her boss's secretary. "She's working for my boss. Typing up reports and the like"

What. Bolivar's eyebrows go up almost off the roof of his scarred head. Not because Buck is backing off— that isn't very surprising, if more welcome than the cantankerous little half-Mexican would let on— or even that Minea experienced one of various on-the-job hazards, but because…

Because… Homeland Security abducted an injured Evolved out of a park, disappeared her for a month, then— gave her secretarial work. It's kind of like the bogeyman dragged the girl by the pigtails kicking and screaming into the swamp to partake in his new teaset. Appropriately distracted, he forgoes the urge to spit verbal venom in Isis and Buck's respective directions. Instead, he stares at Minea like she owes him money.

"Is that a euphemism for vivisection?" he asks, blinking.

A light chuckle finds Isis's alto little vocals as she drops her feet from her booth bench to make room for the cowboy. "Ma'am?" She shakes her head. "If you're going to play southern gent, at least call me miss. There's no way I'm old enough to be a ma'am. Sounds like you've gotten lucky, and your sister sounds like a smart lady. I'd be more apt to trust someone with a dog, than one of my horses." She smirks and offers out one of her small, gloved hands. "Isis."

Buck takes his hat off and turns to nod at Minea. "'Scuse me, ma'am, I didn't realize," he replies as politely as possible. "'Scuse me, sir," Buck adds to Bolivar. "Don't mean t' get in th' way of y'r duties." And now he has more apologies to make to Isis. "Well, 'scuse me, Miss," he replies, "I thought you looked pretty mature." He takes her hand. "My name's Buck," he says. "An' I reckon I c'n understand it, but I know all her horses just as good as she does."

"Slap him in a pair of briefs, a guitar and you have your new naked cowboy on Times Square" Not that, there is one anymore. Is there? "No Bolivar. I don't know why she's playing secretary. It's strange to me. I was too busy singing copa cabana in my dreams to ask her. But I can see about passing your number to her with the order to actually call you"

Isis's handshake is surprisingly firm for her small grip, complemented by the easy smile across her soft features. When released, she straightens her glove around her slim finger with a compulsive attention before lifting up her mug, turning her next words over the ceramic rim. "You ride then? The getups not just for show?" She winks. "Where you from, Cowboy? And, what brings you up here to us Yanks?" She sips at her coffee, glancing aside to the duo across the diner.

There's a grunt from Bolivar, a deflating sort of noise. His shoulders hike up under his ears, which looks halfway between a posture of unimaginable humility and simply, straightforwardly defensive. His gaze scissors back off at Buck after a moment, narrows fractionally, but this time there is a distinct lack of real volcanic activity in his regard. Apparently, Minea's proposition embarrasses him.

"Okay," he gruffs at the DHS agent, presently. "Sounds good. And you— you're okay?"

"Sure I can," Buck answers naturally. "Grew up on a ranch. My sister's in the rodeo." He runs a hand over the back of his head. "Who, me?" As if there were anyone else. "I come from Blanco, Texas and I came to stop terrorists." Pretty simple mission statement. Buck smiles broadly to punctuate it.

Another lofted brow expression of curiosity. Isis puts aside her more favored topic of equestrian backgrounds and turns her attention to the gentleman's mission. "… Stop terrorists? Well…" She pauses and sets her mug aside, her button nose giving a quick little fidget from side to side. "Which terrorists and… I'm sorry, but - how do you intend to stop them?"

"I'm keeping lights on in my place, locking doors three times and an indescribable urge to touch people to make sure their real even though I know their real. I hate fucking telepaths. I'm peachy. You? I bet your in need of a good couple drinks to wash away the whole desk job shit" Minea picks up her coffee cup, finishing off her coffee

Buck frowns a little at Isis's question. "Everybody keeps asking me /which/ terrorists," Buck complains. "All the ones that're killin' civilians. How complicated can it be, now?" he responds rhetorically. But a glance at his watch has him jumping to his feet and putting his hat on. "'Scuse me, I gotta go meet somebody," he says, and hurries out onto the street.

If Bolivar understood the circumstances of the last few months a little better, he'd probably hate telepaths too. Instead, he's left with his imagination and generalized wariness of the Evolved; he shakes his head in agreement. "Similar. Seeing someone, though," he adds. Tucks it in there, quick, more awkward than sly, "which is better than drinking myself to death.

"Poor kid's half-Asian, comes from some fucked up culture of servile abuse or can't speak English something— seems to take constant insults as flattery. Oh, f—" His head jerks upright when Buck flickers through the movement of departure, his left eyebrow quirking downward. There's a quaver-beat, watching the cowboy retreat, and then a snap decision, a sigh of resignation, and a gentle prod of his toe into Logan Rose's ribs. "Say good-bye to the nice man, Logie."

She does. Underneath the table: two barks, bright as a congratulatory clash of silverware.

Isis's dark gaze follows the man's eager retreat. "Yeah, I have that affect on people," she comments more to herself than aught else with an amused smile. She lifts her mug and polishes off the sugary syrup her coffee has become at the bottom before reclaiming her items and sliding from the booth - she's not going to stay and socialize with the angry cop and his companion, after all. She does make a detour over to the counter, leaning in to share a final word with the waitress and pay her bill. The server leaves her with a single piece of sausage on a plate, which the little redhead quickly swipes up before rolling the linked meat across the floor to bounce to a stop against the canine's paw. She flashes the mutt and her owner a grin, and turns to leave.

"Christ Bolivar, I'm not hitting on you. I'm not looking to bump uglies with anyone" Minea rolls her eyes, watching Buck depart and Isis head off. There's a nod of approval at the niceness that's given by Bolivar to the retreating Buck. "Just an offer to go out and just have a drink. Your not my type, I like them a little more pissy and twice as much vinegar"

This makes Bolivar's eyes close and open rapidly. Then scowl. "Jesus fucking Christ," he answers. "I wasn't offering to bump uglies with you and— don't fucking flatter yourself, sweetheart. Christ.

"It's like you've never been petitioned by a fag in need of a hag, before." He sits back against the bench with a weighty flump of fabric on fabric, angles a scowl after Isis that reassures the equilibrium of the universe that everything has returned to normal. "We can go out and have a drink. And I know a guy who would've been exactly your type, if you weren't trying to crack a joke at my expense."

A beat's pause, thoughtful.

"Lee isn't all that pissy or bitter. It'd go over well, you have no fucking mutant genes."

"Well when I ask you to go have a drink with me and you say your dating, then what the hell am I supposed to think Bolivar. How the hell am I supposed to know that your a homosexual" The last word not spoken so loud in case he's not exactly out of the closet. "Not like we're best fucking buddies" Lee, Leland. "Yeah, Know him. In passing. Roomie of Kitty's"

It is very courteous of Minea to try for discretion, but discretion remains, as ever, quite wildly unnecessary for Jason Bolivar Rodriguez-Smith. "Well, obviously I'm not trying to fucking get into your skirt," he says, gesturing irritably with the scarred ruin of his left hand. "I've barely started being friendly." Friendly! Logan Rose is now sitting on her foot, by the way. "Overcoming biases and shit. And you're missing the point.

"Where do you want to go? I'll get the first round: believe it or not, I have enough of a sense of proportion to realize that getting bitch-slapped in the cerebellum by a telepath trumps bureaucratic pencil-pushing bullshit." Generosity, thy name is Bolivar. He squints expectantly at her.

"Fat Cat's. We'll see how bad you can kick my ass at Pool. I'm driving." Let him bitch. "If they bitch about Logan rose i'll just flash my badge"

Plenty of bitching to go around tonight, apparently. Bitch; bitching. Bolivar grunts again, some noise halfway between grudging agreement, default disdain, and something too abstractly kind to place. "Suit yourself.

"When you get smashed and they take your keys and a five hundred dollar parking expiration fee off you, I'm just going to laugh and laugh." He scoots sideways, out of his bench, bringing Logan Rose on a skitter of even small feet with him. He lets the lady go first. Because— she's driving, that's all.

"Taking a taxi home you big lug. And I got the homeland SUV of doom. Which means they'll take a look at the plates and keep on walking. Come on" And with that, she's slapping down money for what she drank and is heading out the door, going first cause, really, she is a lady.

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