milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Steve has been running out by the lake--running and punching the air, trying to work off the energy that performing doesn't burn.

(Performing asks so little of him, really. Make a speech. Pose. Fake a punch. Pose some more. Even with the movies, there's a lot more standing around than there is running or fighting.)

It's a satisfied, post-workout Steve that sits on a stool at the Bar and considers his options for the best post-run meal before he goes home again.

(Well, home, relatively speaking. Home is where he's put his steamer trunk.)

[tiny tag: April Ludgate]

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...There's no way that that is who April thinks it is.

But it could be.

Right?

(April will be somewhere behind Steve, blatantly staring with a cup of coffee in her hand.)

You know that twitchy feeling you get when someone is staring at you, like an itch right between your shoulder blades?

Steve has it now.

He glances around, and--ah, yes.

"Hi," he says with a smile. "I know, I'm a little sweaty. I promise I'll move on soon."

"That won't be necessary."

April takes another sip of coffee.

And maybe doesn't move.

"What's your name?"

"Steve.

"What's yours?"

"April."

Andy would die right here on the spot!

"Do you live here? In the bar, or...?"

"Nope. Just stop in now and again. I'm on the road and this is the cloest thing I have right now to a home base.

"Do you?"

"I just hide out here when I can't stand my coworkers anymore."

April? Not exactly known for her endurance when it comes to dealing with other people.

Holding up the cup, "Plus the coffee actually tastes real here."

"You know, I haven't tried the coffee here yet. That sounds good.

"Coffee and pancakes," he tells the bar. Decadent!

"Pull up a stool, ma'am? No need for you to stand on my account."

But. But.

Staring.

The commentary about a lack of coffee in this poor soul's life is something to be worked on though, and April claims a seat. "What do you mean you haven't tried the coffee here yet. That's ridiculous."

"I'm not usually here for breakfast."

"...And?"

April doesn't get it.

"...and I usually just have coffee with breakfast. This meal notwithstanding."

April sighs one of those sighs people usually reserve for that golden retriever puppy in a shop window.

"That's okay. I'll educate you."

"Okay," he says cautiously. "I don't know what education I'd need about coffee, though."

"Well - doctors and people that spent too much money on school say you're supposed to drink like, eight glasses of water a day.

"Water is boring. So - coffee! It's a perfect solution. And coffee beans are natural."

"I think most people wouldn't be able to handle the jitters of eight cups of coffee a day."

He might get a slight buzz from that, though.

"It takes practice I think." Something April mastered long ago, along with not smiling. Also sarcasm. "Makes school bearable."

"Your school let you drink coffee in class?"

"I'm astonished it's not available via IV drip. When are you from, the 40s?"

Please, please, please!

He nods. "1942. Brooklyn. Uh, that's on Earth, but I think you knew that."

You never can tell, though. Milliways.

"Just because I'm from Pawnee doesn't mean I don't know where Brooklyn is."

Ugh. Pawnee.

After a beat, "Indiana. Where the raccoons are."

"I've been to Indianapolis," Steve offers.

"I've just met quite a few people here who've never heard of Brooklyn. Or Earth. So I try not to assume."

In a rare bout of complete honesty, April puts down her coffee, "I thought for a second there about telling you I was an immigrant to Earth or something from a Martian penal colony, but I'm pretty sure I'd go to Hell if I lied to someone who only drinks coffee at breakfast."

"I'm sure it would take much more than that," Steve assures her.

"You haven't met my mother."

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