milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Somewhere on the planet called Gaia, an unsuspecting but probably really friggin' deserving son of a bitch is getting killed and there might just be a lot of blood. Maybe even some guts spilling out, washing the landscape and scenery in dull red before the planet's guiding force rises up to call that sorry poor fuck back home. The Lifestream picks up around the bastard, engulfing him in a wash of green and blue and white light. Absorbing everything the guy is and was, taking all his memories with it to share, redistribute. It's a handy way of making sure no one who dies ain't ever gone for good and somewhere on the planet called Gaia, a family -- however small -- will come to know that one of its members won't ever be there any more. Somewhere else on Gaia a murderer's wiping blood and guts off his weapon, his hands, his suit, cleaning things up, congratulating himself on a job well done. Maybe even his partner's there patting him on the back, and then they go out for a drink and make a toast: To The Job.

It's happening somewhere, but today -- no matter how much he wishes he was -- Reno ain't involved with that kind of fun. Nope. As much as he yearns for the thrill of a good assignment, they don't really do that shit very much any more. All this planetary rebuilding and babysitting the boss for hours are fine for a friggin' moron, but he's a Turk. All his life, he's trained to do the shit Turks do. This nice-guy crap's a real disappointment.

Faced with all that, what's left for a guy but to head to a bar and drink? Shit, it sounded like a good idea to him, especially when he fingered that butter knife in his pocket and thought about this place at the next door he opened. That's how come his skinny butt's glued to a bar stool, his second bottle of Wutai Pale Ale in his hand and a third sitting there waiting. When he drinks, he doesn't waste time.

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"Hey there, stranger!" a familiar (perhaps peculiar) drawling chirp comes from nearby. "You want some pie to go with that?"

There's a perky friggin' voice.

It's actually someone he likes, though. Imagine that. One sociopath in a shit mood actually liking the dead lady with pie: who could've seen that one coming?

"Hey. Chuck." He nods to the next bar stool. "What kind of pie?"

"Today I've got peach and I've got double chocolate." She grins, "And if something else is to your liking, I bet we can find that too."

"Hmm." Like he has to think it over or something. He learned the hard way that chocolate and ale don't go well together. That was back when he was about seventeen, trashed, and decided cake looked like a good idea.

There's a reason how come he doesn't eat cake any more and that's it. Fruit's a different thing, though, and so it's an easy choice.

"Peach. But only if you have some with me, 'cause I ain't eating alone."

Fuck. Does she always smile? How does she manage that?

She does, in fact, always smile. It's a talent. Or something.

"I think I can manage that." She sweeps a pair of pies onto the table and pulls back a chair. "What've you been up to, Reno-not-in-Nevada?"

It's probably pretty obvious what she's been up to. Pie and laughing.

"The usual." It ain't like he's been back to the beach to work on his tan or anything. "Work. Hanging around. Causing trouble. And..." There's a moment's pause where it looks like he's actually thinking about it carefully. "...that's about it."

His statement ought to be interpreted as the fuck you think, Chuck? Working. Drinking. Fooling around. Trying real hard not to get too close to anyone. Pretending the past doesn't matter. Shit like that.

Too bad he sucks at broadcasting interpretations.

"So you're just here for a break?" She leans forward, hand coming up from her apron with a canister of whipped cream. "Not that I mind any excuse to sit down and talk to you."

Charlie doesn't mind any excuse to talk to anyone.

The fuck did that whipped cream come from? Does she always pack the stuff?

Shit.

"Yeah, just stopped in for a couple ales. Sometimes it's nice to get away from home." At least he has the luxury of doing that. Maybe he ought to feel like shit for saying it in front of Charlie 'cause she's dead. That means she doesn't get to go home. But if he spent every minute feeling bad for everyone who ever deserved it, then he wouldn't have time for the little things like arrogance and self-interest, and then where would he be? Not #2 in the Turks, that's for sure.

The pie does look good, though. He has to admit that. "Got a fork to go with that?"

She pulls a fork from the same mysterious place the whipped cream came from. Who knows what else might be in there, really.

Then she produces another one for herself. "Anything in particular you're getting away from, or just the same old stuff?"

She sprays a liberal dollop of whipped cream onto her own generous slice of pie. A waitrat arrives with a large mug of coffee which she sips happily.

HEY. Where's his whipped cream?

Oh, wait. That doesn't go so good with ale; he sticks that fork in his pie and takes a bite. It's really friggin' good. Actually, Chuck ain't ever steered him wrong on pie yet.

"You make this stuff?" He doesn't much feel like answering her question, so he uses a little diversionary tactic. Fuck it. He's never been the kind of guy who talks about himself if he doesn't have to. "'Cause it's really good."

Finding good pie is a talent. She has a lot of the things. Not falling for conversational diversionary tactics is not one of them.

"Oh, not me. I mean, I make an okay pie, but I don't have time to make this many." She laughs. "Besides, I gotta admit that Bar makes a better pie than I do."

As if to illustrate, she takes a huge forkful of pie and enjoy it both immensely and visible.

"I don't know, Chuck. I bet your pies are real good."

And he does mean pies there. Charlie's too sweet for him to be rude to, and he ain't so used to being nice. Usually he could give a fuck if someone's sweet or not, and even though he doesn't answer her question about what he's here to get away from, he thinks about it.

What he comes up with is this: back home, life's gettin' boring. For the first time, there's no real glamor in what he does and that can just bite him. Sure, people still look and notice; he found that out when he was at the beach with Lara. A Turks suit still gets him free drinks and people call him Sir when they're not calling him other names behind his back. And yeah, he's sworn to serve and protect the boss and he doesn't mind doing it either. It's cool.

It's just really boring right now. Maybe it's time for him to go to someone else's world.

"Like I said," she grins. "They're not bad."

"But these?" she points at hers with her fork, "These are just plain great."

If she knew what he was thinking, and she doesn't because she's never been good at picking up on that sort of thing, she'd offer to take him back to her world.

Then, of course, she would slap her hands over her mouth and blush. Because that's not an option for her anymore.

"So humble." That makes him grin a little bit. "Give me that whipped cream." He never even saw the friggin' can disappear, but it did and he's got a couple ideas of things he wants to try with it.

Right after he finishes off this second bottle of Wutai Pale, and he takes a final sip of that before setting it down again. Then his fork's in his left hand again and he's ready.

"Oh, sorry!" Charlie blushes a bit for having failed to offer him the can in the first place. Her hand darts down again and comes up with the canister.

"Here you go."

She's cute.

"Open wide, Chuck." Before she even can, he sprays the whipped cream onto the end of her nose. It's just payback for last time. He owed her one.

"Hey!" Charlie laughs in shock, rubbing at her nose (and smearing whipped cream everywhere). "What was that for?"

Not that she seems to have minded. At least if her laugh is anything to go by.

She's laughing and wrinkling her nose and rubbing at her cheek. Which is, now, covered in whipped cream.

"It's 'cause you're cute, Charlie. That's what it's for. Also, you did that to me last time we had pie and it was your turn."

Shit. And here he was all friggin' determined to be in a pissy mood, and now he can't. So this Turk walks into a bar...

"Also, I get to do this now." Reaching over, he wipes that whipped cream off her cheek -- at least some of it -- and pops that finger into his mouth. "See? You're sweet. Now I have proof."

She's cool. He does like her.

Charlie giggles and blushes intensely.

"I remember," she says, looking down at her lap. "I always remember."

She picks at her pie with her fork, not eating any, still looking down. She's blushing too hard to look up.

"Hey. Chuck. You blushing down there?"

Fuck it, he's a redhead too. He knows what that's like. Reaching over, he tucks the tip of his finger under her chin, gently urging her to look at him. "I'm just playing with you, you know that. Come here." Now he's got a napkin; gently, he wipes that shit off her face.

"I promise I won't do it again, unless it's the last thing you expect." If that doesn't make any sense, too friggin' bad. He's good at confusing people.

She only blushes all the more furiously. But she lets him push her chin up and wipes her face, and she's smiling through the red cheeks and the lower lip caught lightly in her teeth.

"I suppose I deserved it," she giggles. "I did get you first."

And if that's going to be his criteria, then it's pretty much open season. Chances are that no matter how often people spray her with whipped cream, Charlie will still never expect it.

Fork in hand again, he digs into his pie with pleasure. "Chuck, I'm the baby of five kids. Getting people back for shit kind of gets to be a specialty in that situation, if you know what I mean. Just imagine all those years of payback. I still have every friggin' incident in my book just waiting for when they don't expect it."

He's full of shit, of course. One of his brothers is dead and he could give a fuck about the other two and his sister. Ain't none of them exactly close. But he's a pretty good liar, a convincing one.

It's his job.

"Hey. You want to try the peach pie?" Scooping off a mouthful, he holds his fork up to her. It might look just like a peace offering. If it does and she falls for it, she might be sorry.

"I'll remember that for next time," she laughs. And in the sense that she can't forget anything anymore, she will. But in the sense that she might take that under consideration in any future decisions about pranks? Well... This is Charlie.

As for the forkful of pie? It does look like a peace offering. She does fall for it.

This is Charlie Andrews, after all.

"Here. Open up." Like a gentleman, he lifts his fork to her mouth and feeds her the piece of pie.

Or at least that's the version of it that happens in someone else's universe. Here in the bar, the pie makes it most of the way to her mouth before he... well... pretty much mushes it all over her chin.

"Oops."

He might just be laughing his friggin' ass off.

"Hey!" Charlie yells, clearly upset. Or insanely amused. It's hard to tell.

Okay, so it's not hard to tell at all. This is, as might have been mentioned, Charlie Andrews.

"You think that's funny?" Charlie is laughing, so she probably does. "Is that what you think?"