Whether Pigs Have Wings


bf_felix_icon.gif bf_ruia_icon.gif

Scene Title Whether Pigs Have Wings
Synopsis Felix finds himself at the mercy of an overly talkative stranger
Date November 16, 2014

A Coffee Shop

So, Felix has never been the least bit hip. And he’s surely not now, not into a comfortable middle-age as a servant of the federal government. But somehow, he’s a regular at a local coffee shop that’s painfully so - it used to be a garage, and has kept much of the aesthetic, concrete and steel, with the sign outside reading REV COFFEE. Maybe he haunts it because it’s not somewhere he’s likely to run into co-workers or cops….or because it’s one of the few places that’ll brew tea to the insane prison-strength he likes it.

He’s stowed himself and his laptop at a table just large enough for it, taking care of paperwork while Lee’s out of town. Still in his suitjacket, since he’s come from work, all the better to not frighten the civilians with the shoulder rig he’s got on beneath it, frowning intently at something on the laptop’s screen. Not entirely unaware of his surroundings, despite that concentration.

Ruia is not a regular. By the way she looks around at the decor and the menu… this is likely her first time in here. There seems to be a touch of confusion, even as she orders a coffee that a first-timer probably isn't prepared for. Eventually, though, she and her coffee breeze over to slide into a seat at the table next to him. It's also small, meant for intimate conversation. But not today.

There's nothing particularly special about her— not enough to draw attention her way— until she actually drinks the coffee.

"Oh my god!" she says, reeling back some from the cup as if it has offended her somehow. Her hands wave in the air, a delicate sort of flailing as the taste of the coffee hits her. Around them, a couple regulars snicker. "How can anyone drink that," she asks— of Felix, because he happens to be next to her— as she reaches for the sugar packets.

He looks up from his work with an expression of polite inquiry - it apparently takes him a moment to realize she’s addressing him. Then there’s a glance at her cup. “When they named it the Jet Fuel Triple Shot,” he explains, “They weren’t kidding.” He, for his part, is drinking tea dark enough it looks like it aspires to be coffee. There’s a thoughtful look at her - should he know her? Since part of the New York Code is not talking to total strangers unless dire necessity demands it.

No signs of what he does for a living on him. Not to the casual eye, anyhow. His badge is stowed away….though the less than casual eye would note that his jacket’s tailored to hide a shoulder holster.

"You're telling me. I thought it was just a marketing thing," Ruia says, ripping open sugar, pouring it in, tasting it, adding more. Apparently, she's still going to drink it, but only once it's unrecognizable.

Perhaps she isn't a local. Her accent sounds like a generic American one, like she learned it from the movies. No marks of a borough in her speech. Although, more telling is how she smiles over at him, turning a bit his way as if they're here together and he isn't here to work. In fact, she seems to assume that the laptop is more affectation than anything serious. Perhaps she's spent a lot of time in trendy coffee shops in her time.

"Working on the next great American novel?" she asks, a question that also assumes that he'd just love to tell her about the piece he's working on.

Apparently she’s found the one who isn’t. Fel’s never attempted to write fiction. His real life is weird enough, after all. She gets another faintly owlish look, then he shakes his head. “Nah. Paperwork for work, bureaucratic stuff. I’m not a writer. No such luck.”

Clearly, not from here. It doesn’t seem to discompose him. “Husband’s got the kid for the evening, they’re out at some little munchkin’s birthday party. I’m just getting work done here so I don’t yield to the urge to clean up the apartment instead.”

"Paperwork? Oh no," Ruia says with playful sympathy. "No wonder you come for drinks like these." Strong, that is. "I can't imagine bureaucratic stuff is very engaging. It's like, when I was a kid, my mom used to tell me to read a history textbook if I couldn't sleep."

"That's so sweet of him to give you a free night. Escape the houseful of tiny ones. He deserves flowers or something." Of course, it doesn't seem to occur to her that she is interrupting his gift of time. "Productive procrastination, I'm familiar with it."

The expression that curls the corner of his mouth, nearly hidden by the neat salt and pepper goatee he’s cultivated, isn’t quite a smirk. But it’s definitely close. “Exactly,” he agrees. Nevermind that Lee will expect things other than flowers in recompense.

Fel’s visibly trying to figure her out. Is this an attempt at flirting, a would-be informant trying to make contact, or just a chatterbox latching on to a stranger too polite to give her an open brush-off?

Ruia braves her coffee once more, although she still doesn't seem to enjoy it very much. Which might point to her having a different reason to be here. But if she's attempting to make contact, she's skirting the issue widely. While he studies her, her phone vibrates in her purse and she makes a surprised oh sound before reaching to dig it out.

She doesn't seem to be worried about hiding the screen, which is something that might point to her just being something of a ditzy chatterbox, in the end.

on my way home
where are you

"Sorry," she says to Felix, because she knows she's being rude as she starts to respond. "My roommate. She always worries when I go out. I think she thinks I'm going to get lost," she says as if this is the most ridiculous notion. Like any talkative person with any bit of practice, she can talk and text at the same time, as she proves when she hits send as she turns to smile his way.

Just getting a coffee. It's horrible.

“Well, it is New York,” he says, mildly, as if that might explain it. “People have all kinds of ideas about how dangerous it is here. It really hasn’t been, not in decades, but…” He shrugs, lazily, spreading those long hands. “Myths die hard.”

He devotes himself to his own keyboard in the interim, for a bit. Nothing too sensitive - that kind of work doesn’t get done in a public place. Paperwork, or its electronic equivalent, administrivia. A surprisingly fast typist….or perhaps not surprisingly, really.

"It's a shame it can't shake it's reputation. But, bad ones do stick better than good ones," Ruia says, her smile tilting a little there, like she might know something about bad reputations. It seems like she's going to let him be once he turns back to his work; she only looks over again when she notices how fast he types. It gets a blink. But her phone brings her back to her own business soon enough.

give me a call when you leave

Ruia lets out a sigh, then moves to get up from her table. "I better go before her head falls off. Thanks for the chat." She gives him a wave before she heads out, already making a call before she's even out the door. Even if anyone were listening, it's the sort of inane conversation that often passes between old friends. At least until Ruia is confident that she's not being followed.

Then it switches dramatically.

"We need a tech solution," she notes in flat tones, business, "that means you. Think you could slave a computer for me?" The reaction to that question has her pulling the phone away from her ear until the tinny voice quiets down. "I'm not insulting you, you didn't let me finish. There's a bit of a complication." She pauses for a moment, glancing out toward the traffic crowding the street."

"It belongs to an FBI agent."

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