milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Carl is sitting at a table near the Observation Window, with a blank sketchpad and a pen. He's not drawing the end of the universe, but sketching what appears to be a empty field with shadowed figures walking across it.

(It's rough -- art is definitely his girlfriend's talent, not his -- but it's not like he's drawing it for anyone.)

There's also a half-empty glass of scotch on the table, that he's sipping from occasionally. His eyes move between the turmoil out the window and his sketchpad, but he's still paying enough attention to the bar to not be snuck up on.

(Retired or not, he's still Delta.)

[Open until it scrolls!]

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Trudy doesn't try and sneak. That would...be bad. Not as bad as if he tried to sneak up on her, but still bad. So, she walks moderately loudly (and her boots have a low heel, different from her combat boots), and says, "hey there, stranger," before she puts her hands on his shoulders.

He pauses the movement of the pen against the page when she speaks, glancing up at her over his shoulder.

"Hey, love."

She smiles at him, ducks down to kiss his forehead. "How you doin'?"

"I'm...I'm doing all right." His smile grows a little when she kisses him. "You?"

"I'll survive. Just another day in the office. Really the office, this time. Maintenance," she adds by way of explanation.

It's the bane of her life. Sadly, it's also a very large part of her life, too.

"Maya giving you trouble?"

He pulls the chair at his side out for her.

Edited 2011-02-28 02:46 (UTC)

"I...push her hard. Then I have to pay for it," Trudy admits, moving around to claim the chair. And also Carl's arm, which is currently being a headrest.

"Quality equipment is meant to be pushed," Carl says. "As long as you keep it in good shape, you can keep pushing."

He's done enough damage to his weapons in the past to know that you have to keep it maintained or it'll die on you.

(And then you die.)

"Yeah, says he who doesn't have to crawl around the guts of a chopper." But she's smiling as she says it.

"I think I'd like to watch you crawl around the guts of a chopper, actually." He grins. "But I promise, I'd try and hand you the right tools. To help."

"Right. And you'd be listening to me, and not looking at my ass."

Riiiiight.

"...I can multitask pretty damn efficiently, I'll have you know."

She snorts at that, and just smirks at him.

"Speaking of jobs..." She starts, moving her head up to look at him. "Given any thought as to what you''re...doing?"

Carl holds the eye contact for a minute, then looks back at the paper.

"I have. I'm...not really sure yet what I want to do, but I have thought about it."

"Yeah?" It's more of a 'tell me more' than 'oh really'.

"I might look into consulting. For security."

(It seems that every soldier that gets out of the field ends up in an office at some point in their life, giving their 'expert opinion' on trying to keep other people from getting killed.)

"Mmmm," she says. "Any other thoughts?"

"I'd probably make a pretty terrible car salesman?"

"I love you, so I'm going to try and not laugh at the idea," Trudy observes. "Would...you feel useful, though? I mean, just...consulting? I mean, you don't seem like the desk and tie type."

"I'm definitely not a tie type," he admits. "And...I don't know. I think on one hand, yeah I'd feel useful...but if any of my plans didn't work out, I'd probably...not handle it all that well."

Carl glances down at the sketchpad, and idly works the pen across the page, coloring in the outline of one of the figures standing on the field.

"You need to be useful, I think," she says, quietly.

"I'm not sure I know how to be useful without a gun in my hands," he admits.

"Yeah. I know that feeling. But. Hmm." She lets her head fall back against his shoulder, thinking.

"Useful, but...you do know you have useful skills, though. I mean, the whole quick on your feet, able to think clearly with adrenaline and all that. Any other ideas?"

He shifts to put the pen down and wrap his arm around her body, embracing the moment.

"I am probably a little bit old for playing football, too. And my knees might not like me very much if I tried." He offers her a hint of a smile; he knows she's being serious. "Nah...I mean, I could look into a lot of things. Charity work...teaching, maybe. Though I don't think I'd be much good at that. I'm not good with kids."

"Aren't you? Huh, okay."

She always had him pegged otherwise, but there you have it.

"Charity...aid work? I mean, you're already used to bouncing around the globe."

"True, and I am good at organizing logistical support and running transport operations."

You can get all the pieces together, but can you get them to work is the question.

He turns his head to rest his cheek against her hair -- this way, he can lower his voice further so that only she can hear him.

"I just feel sort of vulnerable, I suppose. Not knowing what my next orders are. I'm so bloody used to someone telling me 'who, what, where, why' that having to debate that for myself is...it's not impossible, it's just odd. I thought I was going to go career in the service."

"...yeah, honey. I know," she says, just as quiet. Then her mouth turns crooked. "Leaving off how long you were in service...hell, do you want." She stops, pauses.

Okay, if you want orders...

"Why don't you go do aid work. Like you said, you're good at organizin' logistics. You can handle the stress. And it'd give you a purpose. Because no offense, seems to me like you're missin' that as much as anythin' else."

"It'd be different...helping people for a change."

From the sound of his voice, he'll at least consider it. And he knows she's right -- he has been lacking in purpose -- so he will seriously consider it.

"I think I'd like that."

"Exactly," she says quietly, with a bit of a smile. "Maybe that's what you need."

William's had a long day and found the Bar on his way back in.

He was going to eat and there's a cooling bowl of chili in front of him but he's fallen asleep on his arms with his hat looking like it might knock over the chili.

Carl is watching William from his table, but he won't make a move to wake the kid up until it seems like it might be absolutely necessary.

He twitches from a bad dream and the hat and chili go tumbling together.

A flurry of waitrats come to the rescue of the mess; Carl drains the rest of his glass of scotch, and motions at the rats. He'll buy the kid another bowl.

As the bowl hits, William wakes up and tries to look like he was sleeping on purpose,

"Damn, I can clean it up, sorry."

"Pretty sure you're not the first bowl of spilled soup they've ever had to handle, lad," Carl assures the boy. "'Sides, they've got to earn their keep somehow, right?"

"Yeah, I know. Just hate causin' trouble,"

One of the rats hands him his hat and he brushes it off.

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