Participants:
| Scene Title | Toast |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Post bar brawl and tasering, Flint swings by for coffee. Abby is nice. She feeds him and fixes his booboos. He does her the favor of mostly behaving himself in return. |
| Date | November 2, 2008 |
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.
One thirty in the morning. An hour and a half before last call.
Flint is early. Fresh bruising trails purple and black under his right eye, adding a hint of color to pre-existing bags and shadows. He smells like a bar, and looks distinctly like he's been rolling around on the curb outside of one. His suit has a few spots of blood across one shoulder, his hair is flat. He probably could not walk in a straight line if asked to do so. But hey! He's here, and conscious, and slumping himself down into a seat at the counter along with whatever other winners hang out at The Nite Owl on Saturday nights.
She's not a looser, but not a winner. It's Abby in her usual shift. Not many people come in looking like they've been in a brawl, though if they have, odds are it's usually a bar/club brawl. Not many people there quite yet so Abby's alone, except for the cook in the back and the dishwasher. The blonde watches the man make his way to a seat, altering her path to fill up the napkin holders so that it brings her on the other side of the counter and in front of Flint, ducking her head down to look him in the eyes with great concern. "Do you need a cup of coffee? Aspirin? Ambulance?"
"Coffee," says Flint, who shifts a little uncomfortably until he's managed a forward slouch into the counter surface, "would be fantastic. Aspirin too, if you have it. I don't need an ambulance." His slouch becomes even more of a lean until his scruffy chin is rested on his folded arms, and he lifts his eyes to follow her progress behind the counter. "Maybe a couple of really hot nurses."
"Get mugged?" Abby reaches below the cupboard, a rummaging sound before a bottle of aspirin is produced, slid in front of him. The coffee cup on saucer overturned and she reaches behind her to grab the pot and pour out a cup for him. "Nurses, don't think that I can do that, but if you need someone to take a look at your face, i'm reasonably adept at doing such" She offers. The sympathy is there in her eyes. "Coffee's on me"
"Dissatisfied customer." He squints an eye over at the aspirin, not actually moving to sit up again until its joined by a cup of coffee. "It's kind of a job hazard. And…thanks." Rather than gratitude, sympathy and free coffee earn blank muddlement and then a more narrow flicker of suspicion. Even so, he unscrews the cap on the bottle of aspirin and knocks out three for himself onto the counter. "Are you a vet during your day job or something?"
"Your not the first to come in here looking like they met the wrong end of someones fist and not wanting to go to the hospital. I have a break anyways, and they have a fairly good First aide kit here. The offer is open, I won't be upset if you take it" Abby's all smiles and southern accents. 'What made you think vet?"
"I don't know. It was just something to say." The pills are scooped over into his palm, and then swallowed down with a gulp of coffee. No cream, no sugar. The slap of it down his throat gives him a moment's pause, which is in turn followed by a stiff-drawn breath. The breath is followed by a reach into his coat that culminates in him pouring a friendly dollop of some unknown but very probably alcoholic liquid into Abby's brew. "You can look at it. I don't care. Just don't poke my fucking eye out."
"Say that word again in the prescense of a lady and I just might" Whether abby is kidding or serious is up for grabs. "Tom! i'm taking my break" She hollers to someone out of sight and motions for Flint to stand and go over to a booth. "Go sit there, i'll be back with the kit in two shakes of a lambs tail. I'll have you as right as rain by the time you leave here hmm?"
"Just might what?" His teeth flash, biting out words on the edge of a temper that's come up really quickly, only to blank out again just as suddenly when she keeps talking. "Two shakes of a lamb's…tail." Slow on the uptake, Flint blinks after her, nose wrinkled, then twists enough to peer at the booth in question. It does not appear to be booby trapped. Or dirty. One hand wrapped back around his coffee, he slides off his seat and relocates himself.
"Poke you in the eyes" And she's gone, disappeared through the swinging doors to the back, pink skirt and white apron. She's gone long enough for Flint to rearrange himself at the booth. Two all purpose towels, and a toolbox sized first aid kit that looks like it could contain the whole of an infirmary in it. "I'm Abigail Beauchamp" She offers by way of introduction, pulling a chair up to the end and first aid kit on the table, flipped open. 'So whats your day job, that you come in looking like a cat that got run over"
By the time she's returned, Flint's posture has fallen back into a sickly slouch, and he's examining his warped reflection stretched across the metal of his flask. "Ouch," is his mild observation for the bruising, but he's a little beyond feeling the worst of it right now anyway. His coffee is half gone, he still stinks, and he's still a little wary when she introduces herself. Still. She's given him coffee and aspirin, so she can't be that bad. "Flint Deckard. I sell insurance."
"That's an understatement. Someone didn't like being told that their policy didn't cover something? Lean forward hmm? So I can look better" She's got a bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze pads, polysporin and other things from the kit. "Want anything to eat after i'm done? That, is gonna come out of your pocket. The coffee and first aid, is on me" She flashes him a smile. "Abigail, or abby, beauchamp. Waitress, patcher upper of the weary and downtrodden who cross my path" She tries hard to supress the urge to touch him.
"Someone didn't like being told that their policy wouldn't cover armor plating over 13mm. I mean. You get what you pay for. And it's not like people are driving tanks around in Brooklyn anyway. Can I smoke in here?" Talking half to her and half to himself, Flint tips another splash of boozesauce into his coffee before setting the flask aside and tugging a pair of folded sunglasses from the neck of his dress shirt. Then he leans over. "French toast. If I use enough syrup maybe it'll still taste okay in a few hours when I throw it up."
"You won't throw it up. I promise" She murmurs, starting to wipe away at his face with great care. "I'd hope people aren't driving tanks around brooklyn. That would be a sight to see. And armor plating? Well, unless they running drugs or part of the presidential campaign, I don't understand why they'd need plating that would stop a tank" Where she brushes her hand against him, she works her own magic, carefully and weakly, working hard to heal him a very little bit at a time. "Tom! Order of french toast! Warm the syrup will you!" She calls over her shoulder towards the order window. A males hand exits the pick up window, a thumbs up then disappears again. "Hurt anywhere that I can't see? Hope you gave as good as you got. Eye for an eye."
"Bullets," says Flint in regard to that half of the conversation. "People like it when they can go through things. Like walls. Except you can't see what's on the other side, so there's no telling who or what you might — nevermind. It doesn't matter. I don't actually sell insurance, is the point." At closer range, his breath is an interesting mix of smoke, whiskey, coffee, and possibly tequila. "My ribs are all fu — messed up. Tonto tried to squeeze the life out of me a few days ago. Long story." His brows twitch down against the progress she's making when bruising is encountered, and then a little more distinctly after something else. Weird. "I tasered him."
"I won't ask further then. Thank you though, for the honesty about not being in insurance. Guess that would have been awkward to ask for business card so I could buy some insurance" She tilts her head to concentrate on being very careful around his eye. Her gaze going to his at the twitch. "Something wrong?" the tingling stops when she abruptly stops when the healing ceases. Worry lurking somewhere inside her that he might catch on.
"No. Just the aspirin. Feels funny. That's probably why they tell you not to take it while you're drinking." A lazy gesture at the side of his head is aborted to avoid interrupting whatever it is that she's doing, and his gaze swings up from its dull study of the table to work over her face. Flat, unfeeling grey, and dialated enough that he might have some kind of concussion, his eyes don't blink again until he's reached back over for his dosed coffee. Whatever it is must not be bothering him too much. "I'm an honest guy. What can I say?"
"Must be the alcohol" Abby's not a good liar. Doesn't quite meet his eyes when she says it. "This they also tell you not to take it becuase it'll burn holes in your stomach" She's switching out gauze, working diligently, feather touches. "Almost done here then i'll get you your french toast and you should be right as rain" There's that tingling again. "Promise you won't go out and ruin my good work, for at least… two more days?" She's checking, using that little trick of her to see if there is a concussion. Wouldn't do good to heal him a little and leave him in need of seeing a doctor. Abby places the back of her palm to his forehead, faking feeling for a temperature.
"What do they know?" They're just doctors! Too inebriated to fidgit much under the work of her hands over his face, Flint stares after the absence of eye contact for a few seconds longer, to no avail. And suddenly, her hand is against his forehead. There is no concussion, or fever. His eyes, now perfectly normal, follow the contact up, and he looks back to her, questioning. "I'll make an effort. No promises, though."
And just like that, she removes her hand, the tingling tapers off and she's gathering all the used things up to toss, stuffing them into a cup. "They must know something, they spent all those years at school. Has to count for something yes?" The smile is still plastered across her face, thought here's lines now at the corner of her eyes, marks of tiredness. "Want some bacon with the french toast?" She's not meeting his eyes still, not after having pulled her hand back.
Deckard lifts a hand to rub it over his face once she's disengaged, more of a tired gesture than anything more sinister or searching. Then it's back to the coffee. He frowns down at the black of it and shrugs a shoulder after Abby's mention of school. "No bacon. Where are you from?"
"Louisiana. Middle of nowhere" unused gauze is folded up, tucked away, thing back in their appropriate places neat as can be. "Been here a few years. Been working here for most of them" There's the ding of a bell and a plate of french toast is shoved into the slot. "I'll be back, with your food, and more coffee"
"Louisiana," Deckard echoes, slouching back into the booth. There's more uncomfortable moving around, and the taser he used to brighten his friend at the bar's day joins his sunglasses and his coffee on the table. "Thanks. You're a doll."
“Nope, I'm an Abby. Blonde, and a waitress, not a doll. Used to have one though" It's an automatic retort, not snappily spoken but there's a hint of a smile and a wink as she lays down the plate of egg battered bread, butter, icing sugar and maple syrup. The coffee cup is refilled moments later. 'Can I ask where you're from?" She eases down, filling a cup for herself. Seems she's still on break.
Syrup goes on first, without any particular art to it. He just tumps it over until he's deemed a sufficient amount has flown forth. Sugar is shaken out in the same haphazard manner. Whatever. He's drunk. It's toast. "Nowhere interesting. Anyway. I don't talk funny. You do." An upward glance takes in her assuming the seat across from him again, but he doesn't protest.
“To me, your the one that talks funny. And it always interesting. Or else, why would one ask?" She taps the table with her fingers though before she slides out again, coffee in one hand, pot in the other. "I'll leave you be though, So you can eat in peace. You can pay up at the front, bill will be waiting for you. Pleasure to meet you" She dips her head to him, grip tight on the coffee pot.
"I'm from Salem. The 'prettiest town in northern New York.'" Old irritation trips along with the delayed answer, and he jabs his fork down into his toast so that he can set to cutting. "We'll probably see each other again. You're nice. And your coffee doesn't suck."
"We try. Holler if you need a refill Salem. I work nights usually." She returns for the toolbox. "Till then, I need to get back on shift."
 November 1st: Chatter by the Water Cooler |
 November 2nd: Chase the Morning |