milliways_bar | (no subject)

A little further down the bar, a scrawny sort of young man sits down, and takes out a pad of paper and a pen, scribbles something, and lays it on the counter.

The note disappears, and a beer appears.

He pulls it towards himself, and offers her a small smile, and nods when he notices her.

Kaylee smiles; Kaylee's friendly. "Evenin'."

Nick lifts one hand in a friendly sort of wave.

Her smile is a little like Frannie's.

He shifts his gaze to the book, and then back to her, and lifts both eyebrows quizzically.

He doesn't exactly look like the strong silent type...but Kaylee gets the point. Maybe some people just don't like to talk.

"Cookbook. Finally got access to a place with a good kitchen, good stuff to cook with, and more than eight folks to eat, so -- " Here her head turns a little as she looks down at the cookbook, tapping it with her right hand. " -- I figured maybe I should see if there ain't -- " And back up at him. " -- somethin' new I can try, since I got the chance and all."

He looks a little puzzled when she turns her head back to him, his gaze much more intent.

No, not intent. Concentrating. On her mouth, of all things.

And then he looks up, and gives a lopsides sort of smile, shrugging with his head to one side, before taking out his pad of paper, and writing quickly.

The page he tears off and hands to the woman says, "Sorry, I didn't catch part of that. My name's Nick Andros. I'm deaf-mute, but I can read lips. It's nice to meet you."

And he offers his hand, once she's read the note.

Kaylee looks down at the note, up at him --

-- and meets his hand, smiling. It's a little sheepish. "Sorry. I'm Kaylee. Kaylee Frye. Good to meet you." She nods to the cookbook. "Was just sayin' that I got the chance to cook in a good place, so I figured maybe I should do a little research."

Now she's being careful to face him the entire time.

He smiles back, relieved. Some people--not many, in the post-plague days, but some still--had a thing about deaf-mutes.

At least, he thinks, I haven't run into any of those yet.

He writes out a note, and turns the pad towards her.

"Are you planning on leaving soon?"

He makes a point of looking around the bar, and then tilts his head slightly.

"Not for a little while -- I mean, I got to head back soon, otherwise folks'll wonder where I am, but I wasn't gettin' ready to pack up or anything, if that's what you're gettin' at." Mildly cheerfully.

He shakes his head.

"No," he writes, "I guess I just assumed most people lived here. There are a lot of rooms."

And a lot of people. He isn't used to large, pressing groups like this anymore, and feels mildly claustrophobic.

"Where are you from?"

"Well -- if you're from the 'verse with Earth in it -- I'm from the year 2519. Transport ship called Serenity. Firefly-class. We go all over." Kaylee leans against the Bar, head resting against her hand. "And yeah -- all manner of folks come here. It takes some gettin' used to, that's for sure."

Nick stares.

He can't help it.

2519? The human race barely made it to 1990 in his world, and he has an uneasy feeling that he doesn't want to know where they'll even by the time the decade runs out.

Kaylee nods. "Not pullin' your leg or nothin'. Promise."

He shakes his head, and writes quickly.

"I believe you. But it's only 1990 on Earth and there aren't a whole lot of people left already. It's sort of encouraging to know that in at least one scenario, everything works out all right."

He hands her the note, and gives her a smile and the thumbs-up.

Kaylee reads. Looks up at him, looks down at the note again.

"...is it gonna blow your mind if I tell you there's a bunch of versions of each world? So I'm told, anyhow."

Nick shrugs, and makes a good show of looking around the bar, stopping clearly at various incredible-looking individuals and those who look similiar, but have a difference of costume or bearing, before turning back to Kaylee with a half-smile, gesturing towards the general bar area, and nodding.

Kaylee grins. "Right. So. I guess...ours is different from yours." Pause. "How come -- I mean, if it ain't pryin' or nothin' -- how come there's not many folks left?"

Nick looks at her for a moment, and then writes quickly.

This note he tears off and hands to her.

"Not prying. Guess it's good you don't know. There was a plague. I guess it was mostly called the superflu. Some people called it Captain Trips. Ever heard of it? Anyway, it got most of the people,

(Jane Baker all in her lace like a bride and he carried her, oh, in her lace)

"and those that were left went West. Some to Boulder, CO (where I ended up) and some further, to Vegas."

Kaylee blinks, her mouth open a little.

"That's -- that's awful. I'm -- I'm so sorry."

Things like that only mostly happen on the border planets.

It's a little scary, thinking about Earth-that-Was going the same way. Because that's where everything came from.

He looks at her, his expression serious, and nods.

"People said it was the government, and some people thought it was God or the dark man or some such thing. I don't really know what it was, except that everyone seemed to get sick of it. Far as I know, some idiot in a bunker broke a vial and then carried it on out to everyone else."

He pauses in his writing, and looks up at her with sympathy.

"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to upset you or anything--like I said, it's nice to know there's an earth where that doesn't happen."

"Oh, no -- I'm not upset, it's just -- we're used to hearin' about plagues and whatnot way far out on the Rim, on the border planets -- and it's awful -- "

She stops.

"This has got to be the stupidest question in the 'verse, but -- are you okay?"

Sometimes Kaylee gets rambly.

Nick doesn't mind rambly.

And he really, really appreciates someone asking if he is alright, even though it reminds him of Fran again, and that reminds him of Stu and Larry and Glen, and they all remind him of Tom.

M-O-O-N, he thinks, unhappily. That spells end of the universe.

But he gives Kaylee an encouraging smile and the circle of thumb and forefinger.

A-OK.

"Never got sick," he writes. "Some of us didn't. I'm stuck here, though. Miss my friends."

"Shi a -- I mean, of course." A very slight smile. "Sorry. Mandarin slips in sometimes -- everybody can speak both. But -- I mean, if you want to talk about it -- what're they like? Your friends?"

Sometimes talking about home makes it worse.

Sometimes, though, it makes it better.

He waves a hand, and nods.

"I'll look out for that, then," he writes. "I can't read anything but English, more's the pity. Never got to that level in my correspondence courses."

And he bites on the end of the pen, thinking for a long moment, his gaze very far away, before setting pen to paper once again.

"They're good people. They've been working to organize the survivors into a proper community again, but it's uhill work. Stu's in charge, or at least he's the head figure. Good man. From Texas. He and Frannie took me in, a little. Think Fran decided I needed a mother, or something.

"Larry's from New York. There's a man here I met who reminded me a lot of him--the bartender, Eddie Dean? Makes me wonder if all New Yorkers are the same after all (ha ha)."

This one takes a while, and he bites his lip, hard, while writing.

"I guess my best friend is Tom Cullen. He and I traveled together just after the plague, and he saved my life once. It was just me and him for a long time."

He hands the note to Kaylee, watching her reactions closely.

Kaylee takes the note, and reads it -- and smiles a little at the part about Fran, and smiles more at the part about Eddie.

She puts the note on the Bar. "They sound like such good folks. And -- not that I got a bunch of New Yorkers to make reference to, but -- Susannah -- Eddie's wife -- ain't exactly the same as he is. Not to say she ain't friendly, but -- I'm assumin' Larry's funny, like Eddie?"

And maybe a little scary, but Kaylee's not going to get into that part. Presumably Larry is also not a gunslinger.

Nick makes a face, but it's a fond one.

"He's a fool, sometimes," he writes. "Or acts like one. But there's something in Larry that's like biting on tinfoil. He's tough. He's friendly the way Eddie is, I guess."

He shrugs. It's hard to describe. And if Nick knew what a gunslinger was, well--

Of all of them, Larry might be the most likely to be one. Nick thinks about the unforgiving glint in his eyes, and sighs, a little.

"And they are. Very good folks."