(no subject)
On the back of receipt for two lunches, two drinks.
Always good to see him. He's still looking -- tired the same. Holding steady.
All any of us can ask for, really.
It is in the mid-sixties in Saratoga, California today, sunny and fair: nice enough that the little eatery currently occupied by a thinning lunch crowd has left is doors wide open, but not so nice that patio seating has been opted for instead of a booth inside. From this particular booth, there is a good view of both doors and a wall at which to put one's back. (Provided, provided one angles slightly.) There is an absence of menus, a presence of glasses. Orders are already in.
Sal is braced against her wall, with one arm on the table and one resting along the back of her side of the booth; her hair is loose, held back from her face by mirrored aviator shades, and she is dressed business-casual in a pantsuit, the blazer of which conceals the shoulder-holster'd bulk of a gun for which she most surely has a conceal-carry permit. She has a glass of iced tea, about a quarter gone, and no baby. Markedly: no baby. "So he just turns up," she's in the process of saying, "out of the blue, with no warning. Not entirely sure what I'm supposed to do with him yet, but--" she hooks a half-smile, slightly rueful, "it's got me the afternoon free, at least."
Pete's demeanor is casual despite the ever-present suit, slouched ease that of someone who is perpetually indifferent to his surroundings. Save, at least, for those little cues - the fact that he, too, does not quite turn his back on the room, the way those bright blue eyes track towards sudden sound and movement. If he is armed, it is not with anything visible, though Pete being who and what he is, there is almost certainly a knife or two secreted somewhere. "Family's like that," he says, with the half-amused sympathy of someone who's glad it at least isn't him. "Bit like stray cats, really. You could always put him to work."
"Stray cats," Sal agrees, with a look and a sweep of her hand for just long enough that the next part of what she says is probably, 'secret agents,' even though she doesn't say it out loud. "I've almost gotten used to that." A business lunch a couple tables over disperses: what looks like slightly harried middle-management, from the cut of their suits and the general air about them. Sal watches as they rise and make their goodbyes, toying with the straw in her tea. "I'll probably put him to work in the stables. He was one of mine, for a while, but he's worked with my parents more recently." She holds a fingertip against the open end of the straw, pulls it out of the tea, then releases her finger. "Business still pretty good?"
Pete utters a quiet snort of amusement, and dips his head slightly as though to acknowledge the unvoiced statement. "Relatively," he replies. "Just the usual bumps you'd expect, given the economic climate. --And speaking of stray cats, I think fully half the women in the office pool are /still/ hoping to domesticate our man LeBeau."
"Good to hear," Sal says, with just a little more warmth and sincerity than you'd expect from a reply about business. "I-- can't say that I'm surprised," she says in answer to Remy's introduction, "because some women just can't stand to find out how wrong they are. That little bit I ran into the other day one of them?"
Pete's mouth twists in a wry sort of grimace. "/That/ one seems to've opted to go panting after every man who wanders through her field of vision," he replies. He pauses to take a sip from his glass of water, one thumb tracing an absent line through the condensation forming on the glass. "Especially those of us who aren't any sort of good news."
Sal responds with a swift upward wing of eyebrows, and bites her bottom lip to keep from laughing at Pete's grimace. "I take it that means you've had some rather -- /personal/ experience in that area, love?" The deliberate lift of his phrasing is, in fact, deliberate, and she lifts her glass to sip at her tea and watch him as he answers. She watches closely, but no more pointedly than usual, and stretches slightly to bump his leg with hers, under the table.
Pete nudges her leg in return. Though his expression is one of wry, somewhat self-deprecating amusement, there is a frayed weariness lingering in the back of his eyes that is rather divorced from the current topic. "I've had that /pleasure/, yeah. The timing was a bit spectacular, really. But you'll probably have to hit her with a firehose if you've got any farmhands about when she comes calling."
If Sal were someone else, she might reach for Pete's hand, but she isn't. Also, she values keeping all limbs attached. Which is why all she does is keep her leg up against his, unitrusive but still present. She winces in sympathy, slightly mocking (by expression; it's honest in the back of her eyes, where concern is kept at bay). "Classy," is her pronouncement, before she face-twitches to quash a smile again. "...I'm half-tempted to not give Jack a fair warning, on that account. But I even I'm not quite -that- cruel." She pauses, then lifts her hand to tip it from side to side. /Maybe/ she is.
Pete laughs, low and barely vocalized; it is present mostly in the shift of his shoulders and the slight quirk to his mouth. "She screeches when spurned," he warns. "Or when confronted with anything inconvenient, really. It's a bit hilarious." The quick upward flicker of his hand to brush against his temple seems an absent gesture, easily missed. "--So, how are you and Jimmy getting on? Aside from the stray-cat relations?"
"So noted," Sal assures, with a tip of her head that is just as absent, just as easily missed. "Haven't had any frantic calls at three am 'cause he won't stop screaming, have you?" she says, slightly (vaguely) sheepish. (There is, undoubtedly, at least one occurrence of this that would make a good story, if either were of a sharing bent.) "We're -- getting used to each other. It's--" she draws a line across the table with the pad of her index finger, watching this instead of Pete's face. "Different."
"Different." Pete gives her a brief, wry smile, a hint of sympathy buried somewhere deep beneath. Were they both rather more demonstrative sorts, there would probably be a hug - but they are not, and there is not. "Yeah, I'd imagine it would be, at that." A clatter of pots across the room indicates the opening of the kitchen door, and their waitress swings through bearing food. This is enough to quiet the conversation - at least for the moment.
Old familiar faces.
Always good to see him. He's still looking -- tired the same. Holding steady.
All any of us can ask for, really.
It is in the mid-sixties in Saratoga, California today, sunny and fair: nice enough that the little eatery currently occupied by a thinning lunch crowd has left is doors wide open, but not so nice that patio seating has been opted for instead of a booth inside. From this particular booth, there is a good view of both doors and a wall at which to put one's back. (Provided, provided one angles slightly.) There is an absence of menus, a presence of glasses. Orders are already in.
Sal is braced against her wall, with one arm on the table and one resting along the back of her side of the booth; her hair is loose, held back from her face by mirrored aviator shades, and she is dressed business-casual in a pantsuit, the blazer of which conceals the shoulder-holster'd bulk of a gun for which she most surely has a conceal-carry permit. She has a glass of iced tea, about a quarter gone, and no baby. Markedly: no baby. "So he just turns up," she's in the process of saying, "out of the blue, with no warning. Not entirely sure what I'm supposed to do with him yet, but--" she hooks a half-smile, slightly rueful, "it's got me the afternoon free, at least."
Pete's demeanor is casual despite the ever-present suit, slouched ease that of someone who is perpetually indifferent to his surroundings. Save, at least, for those little cues - the fact that he, too, does not quite turn his back on the room, the way those bright blue eyes track towards sudden sound and movement. If he is armed, it is not with anything visible, though Pete being who and what he is, there is almost certainly a knife or two secreted somewhere. "Family's like that," he says, with the half-amused sympathy of someone who's glad it at least isn't him. "Bit like stray cats, really. You could always put him to work."
"Stray cats," Sal agrees, with a look and a sweep of her hand for just long enough that the next part of what she says is probably, 'secret agents,' even though she doesn't say it out loud. "I've almost gotten used to that." A business lunch a couple tables over disperses: what looks like slightly harried middle-management, from the cut of their suits and the general air about them. Sal watches as they rise and make their goodbyes, toying with the straw in her tea. "I'll probably put him to work in the stables. He was one of mine, for a while, but he's worked with my parents more recently." She holds a fingertip against the open end of the straw, pulls it out of the tea, then releases her finger. "Business still pretty good?"
Pete utters a quiet snort of amusement, and dips his head slightly as though to acknowledge the unvoiced statement. "Relatively," he replies. "Just the usual bumps you'd expect, given the economic climate. --And speaking of stray cats, I think fully half the women in the office pool are /still/ hoping to domesticate our man LeBeau."
"Good to hear," Sal says, with just a little more warmth and sincerity than you'd expect from a reply about business. "I-- can't say that I'm surprised," she says in answer to Remy's introduction, "because some women just can't stand to find out how wrong they are. That little bit I ran into the other day one of them?"
Pete's mouth twists in a wry sort of grimace. "/That/ one seems to've opted to go panting after every man who wanders through her field of vision," he replies. He pauses to take a sip from his glass of water, one thumb tracing an absent line through the condensation forming on the glass. "Especially those of us who aren't any sort of good news."
Sal responds with a swift upward wing of eyebrows, and bites her bottom lip to keep from laughing at Pete's grimace. "I take it that means you've had some rather -- /personal/ experience in that area, love?" The deliberate lift of his phrasing is, in fact, deliberate, and she lifts her glass to sip at her tea and watch him as he answers. She watches closely, but no more pointedly than usual, and stretches slightly to bump his leg with hers, under the table.
Pete nudges her leg in return. Though his expression is one of wry, somewhat self-deprecating amusement, there is a frayed weariness lingering in the back of his eyes that is rather divorced from the current topic. "I've had that /pleasure/, yeah. The timing was a bit spectacular, really. But you'll probably have to hit her with a firehose if you've got any farmhands about when she comes calling."
If Sal were someone else, she might reach for Pete's hand, but she isn't. Also, she values keeping all limbs attached. Which is why all she does is keep her leg up against his, unitrusive but still present. She winces in sympathy, slightly mocking (by expression; it's honest in the back of her eyes, where concern is kept at bay). "Classy," is her pronouncement, before she face-twitches to quash a smile again. "...I'm half-tempted to not give Jack a fair warning, on that account. But I even I'm not quite -that- cruel." She pauses, then lifts her hand to tip it from side to side. /Maybe/ she is.
Pete laughs, low and barely vocalized; it is present mostly in the shift of his shoulders and the slight quirk to his mouth. "She screeches when spurned," he warns. "Or when confronted with anything inconvenient, really. It's a bit hilarious." The quick upward flicker of his hand to brush against his temple seems an absent gesture, easily missed. "--So, how are you and Jimmy getting on? Aside from the stray-cat relations?"
"So noted," Sal assures, with a tip of her head that is just as absent, just as easily missed. "Haven't had any frantic calls at three am 'cause he won't stop screaming, have you?" she says, slightly (vaguely) sheepish. (There is, undoubtedly, at least one occurrence of this that would make a good story, if either were of a sharing bent.) "We're -- getting used to each other. It's--" she draws a line across the table with the pad of her index finger, watching this instead of Pete's face. "Different."
"Different." Pete gives her a brief, wry smile, a hint of sympathy buried somewhere deep beneath. Were they both rather more demonstrative sorts, there would probably be a hug - but they are not, and there is not. "Yeah, I'd imagine it would be, at that." A clatter of pots across the room indicates the opening of the kitchen door, and their waitress swings through bearing food. This is enough to quiet the conversation - at least for the moment.
Old familiar faces.