(2018-03-18) A Late Supper
A Late Supper
Summary: Eddie and Ida run into Denver at Frugal's.
Date: 2018-03-18
Related: None
Player Characters: Denver, Eddie, Ida

---| Eddie's Apartment - Old Tenement - Baker St.

This apartment has gone long unloved, uncared for, even actively abused by previous tenants. The scent of mildew and dust lingers. The floor is a once-varnished hardwood that alternates between scarred, pitted, swollen and distorted. The window panes are darkened with dust and smoke to the point where they almost blend with the moisture-spotted beige wallpaper. Allegedly a studio, there is little room even for the scant kitchenette and half bath, both of which are graced with faux stucco walls the color of freezerburnt chicken to go with the mustard colored cabinetry. The appliances are several decades old, mixed off-white, off-pink and hospital green, with rusting "stainless" sinks. Above the stove a previous tenant has carved "SMIEL (:" so deep into the drywall that no patch job can hide it.

Whomever currently lives here might be actively on the run. The only seating is a drab futon on top of an inflatable mattress, both sagging with age, shoved into a corner furthest away from the apartment door. A rolled up blanket offers questionable protection from the sticky wall. Re-used plastic milk crates are incongrous bits of bright color, used next to the futon to hold a crooked light and a collection of third-hand poetry, as well as below the windows for a portable battery powered lantern and a wheezing radio.

Eddie's actually asleep, this time. No donuts, no poetry, no lights on. No sign of the bad decisions he's been making today, either. With all the disgruntled police detectives in his life right now he was at least smart enough to ditch the works after what he got up to earlier. He had kind of a dreamy smile on his face when he drifted off, but his aggressive constitution took care of all that about an hour ago, and now he's just sort of tossing fitfully around on the deflated ruin of his bedding, still wearing all the clothes he didn't bother taking off before he went on the nod.

There's a knock on the door. Not a cop, this time, and Eddie might recognize it as something Ida uses: Mysterioso Pizzicato, also known as "The Villain's Theme", light and quick with the knuckles against the wood, starting from the top and going down and a little sideways with the quick pattern. Then a pause. Then it repeats.

Outside it's turned into a humid night, the damp making the fairly decent temperature feel like it has hidden teeth. It is slipping in through the cracks and holes of the old tenement, making the hot water pipes bang angrily in the walls.

"Go away," rasps the detective's voice after the first knock, muffled more by sleep than by the thin walls and cheap doors of the tenement building, "I don't want any." After the second knock there aren't any words, just the sound of something thrashing, and something padded impacting against the wall. Still, after a while a flickering yellow light shines under the door, and the noise of feet trudging heavily across the hardwood floor. The sink running, the fridge opening and closing, the toilet flushing, all audible from the hallway and probably both adjacent apartments and the alleyway outside.

"Are you still there?" The door finally opens a crack, a big red-brown eye peering out. "If you're here to tell me you found God, you can save it. I already heard that one." It swings open the rest of the way, and there's Eddie, still damp from a whore's bath at the kitchen sink, and all the warm happy feelings he's been sweating out the past few hours. He turns his back and stumbles over to a milk cart. That's all the invitation he's got in him, apparently.

At some point he might have heard something that sounded like soft laughter from out in the hall. That may just have been the wind, though. But yes, there Ida stands, framed by the doorway and the beatdown glory of the hallway outside. She follows the invitation, shimmering white-black eyes sweeping over his back, taking in the stumble.

"I know, darling. I was here when our friend exclaimed about seeing the light. I have not found such nor been found, fortunately for everyone involved." She pats down her pockets, then offers him a can of that pineapple-candycotton soda they had gotten in the past. It's still cool, if no longer cold. "I know you had quite the day."

"What, you've been following me?" Eddie doesn't sound like he'd be too surprised, or too unhappy, for that matter. He takes the soda with a thankful nod, and spends some time rubbing it back and forth against his forehead before he opens it up. He clears his throat and spits something onto the floor and starts drinking his drink, getting to work on waking up the rest of the way. "Today was fine. Just fine. I've made a lot of good decisions today and I feel very good about who I am and the things I do and my prospects for the future. Sit down, how was yours?"

That rhetorical question gets the answer it deserves: a smile. Ida takes out a can for herself, leaning languidly against the kitchen counter, a vision in crimson and greys and jewel brights amidst the hovel's drabs. Then she sighs, not unhappily, removing her trench entirely to drape it across the other empty crate. "I much prefer people who stick with a routine, you know. I had to miss out on my favorite coffee spot when you did that U-turn. Really, have some consideration. And no, that is not a challenge that you should go to that dreadful religious place as well." She shudders, not entirely theatrical, and has another drink. Contemplating it, him, life as a whole. "I was tempted to bring something more potent but frankly I am assuming even a six pack of something "light" would lead to your door being broken down in this place."

She is kind of curled up on her seat, legs bent beneath her, showing off a glimpse of the long strong thighs before shadow and skirt takes over. "Mmm. And I am concerned about the health of our detective friend. My first impression of him was someone much more…" She pauses, and here are the dimples. ".. Cooperative. I do wish you had brought me with you to that Farmhouse. Researching that dreadful woman is much less interesting."

Eddie watches that shudder and makes a little note, somewhere behind his eyes. He's that awake, at least. "If I'd known he was going to show up when he did, maybe I would have. You could have shown him one of your ankles and run him shrieking into the sea, again," Eddie says, pausing to relish the memory of the fleeing detective. It seems to do him some good, and he sits up a little straighter. "I only rode out to talk to Bea about that dreadful woman. She's still sore at me walking off, wants me to talk to her. I guess I might as well. After an hour alone with Bea, she probably knows everybody's shoe size by now."

"And when you had your last shots, along with what you had them for and the exact part of your anatomy. Quite so. Aw. I do dislike you and Bea having a quarrel. What if we bribe her to get back into her good graces?" And just like that Ida goes from 'you and Bea' to 'we', eyes all innocent. Well. A fair assumption of innocence, to someone who didn't know her. She also seems to feel better at the memory of the hardboiled detective turning all pink, straightening out one of those long legs to gently tap the toe against Eddie's knee. "Speaking of Bea, I admit I am somewhat starving. I am not sure where your appetite lies, darling, but you know how fond I am of escaping witih you to better places. In lieu of Rio, would you be up for dinner somewhere? … Well. A late supper, perhaps."

"Who says I've had my shots?" Eddie asks with a grin, snapping his teeth like a rabid dog. He makes a little face at the thought of food, searching inward for an appetite and not finding one, for once. Still. He looks around the apartment, and somehow finds in his surroundings the motivation to leave them. A nod. "Sure. I can watch you eat, anyway, and try and count all those new teeth you've got. Get your coat, you don't want to leave it here." He rises to his feet, less shaky than he was when he let her in, and he goes to hold the door open.

----| Frugal's Drive-Thru - Baker Street

There's not much of an interior to speak of, when it comes to Frugal's. More accurately, it's not very large, nor is it designed to be overly comfortable. In many ways, it's more like a thematic shelter than a restaurant. The franchise is built on a reflection of the name, you see; it's all very frugal. The paper bags the food comes in, the wrappers for the burgers, even the cups the drinks are served in — none have any sort of logo or marking to speak of. Costs are cut in every way, keeping the price of the meals rock-bottom. For the longest time, the little burger shop was no more than two drive-through windows and a perpetually busy kitchen. The shelter where people can stop and eat is a new thing.

The little shelter provided for dining continues the motif of the original building; lots of steel with art deco sensibilities. There's almost a retro feel to the inside, the half-dozen booths and high stools by the counter all created with the same design: red plastic seats used as unconvincing faux leather upholstery, hollow steel legs, laminate table and countertops… and of course a black and white chequered floor. Tall, narrow windows are placed side by side to form a wall of glass from the waist up, completing the retro look. There are no salt and pepper shakers, no ketchup or mustard bottles. Any condiments are provided with the meals. It's cheaper that way.

And so we find our terrific twosome having a meal at that most fabulous of foodservice fixations: Frugal's. Ida is looking around the place with a faintly nostalgic smile. "It is good to see some things do not change. I do believe it is exactly the same as before." She puts her hand up to Eddie's shoulder in a fond little squeeze before letting go. "Are you sure you are not hungry?"

Eddie likes Frugals a lot. Probably more than any actual human being ever could. Tonight, though, the smell of frying grease and the heat coming off stove is nearly enough to turn him away at the door. He looks up at the menu for a long time, gripping his stomach and turning a paler shade of gray. "No," he says, shaking his head, "you go ahead, I'll grab us a booth." He goes to do that and makes it two steps and stops to smell the air again. It makes him sick. He feels sick. "Maybe a couple of BLTs," he says over his shoulder, and he finds the booth with the weakest lightbulb overhead, to go and lay his head on the table a little while.

"You look like shit!" That's a very loud voice coming up behind the Winter, familiar and friendly, and only a little chiding. Denver leans against the back of the booth, the heat coming off of her in waves, easily felt as she leans forward to climb over the booth back and slide into a seat next to Eddie. There's a wrapped bundle in her arms, deposited on the table. And that massive case she carries around with her, which he knows for certain has a sword in it? It's set right next to her for easy grabbing. "Why do you look like shit?"

"Because I feel like shit," Eddie says, after a few abortive attempts to come up with something clever. He doesn't jump or startle or even lift his head off the table. It's a good table. Cool, and damp, and smelling of cleaning solution. He likes it just fine. Still, all good things must come to an end, and he finally raises himself up into a sitting position. Or slouching, at least. "Anyway," he says, waving a careless arm over at the counter where Ida is placing their orders, "she looks good enough for both of us."

"Certainly, darling," replies the tall Fairest smoothly to the somewhat greyer-than-usual fly Beast. She has joined the cue for food, but turns her head to shoot a smile and a little wave to, "Denver! You look wonderful." Frugal's efficient at this hour. She's up, placing her order. Something something BLTs, something something bacon cheese, two large fries, an orange creamsicle shake, a blackberry shake and a cherry cola soda. There's a brief additional conversation at the counter, and then she returns back to the table. With a smile and the soda already ready to be offered to the suffering sleuth. "I thought some sugar might cheer you up."

"She looks good enough for all three of us," Denver agrees with a laugh as she leans back in the booth, curling her legs up underneath her. She's small and bendy, even with all that nicely toned muscle of hers. "Hope I'm not interupting a date or anything. Just had something I wanted to give your gal. Just in case another sticky bozo shows up and I'm not around. I'm guessing they're hunting me, but you can't be too careful yea?" Her head lifts, offering a wave to Ida. "What have you done to Eddie, woman?"

"Thanks," Eddie says to the Fairest, digging down deep and finding the juice to screw on a smile. It's pretty thin, and it doesn't last long, but he makes the effort. He pops the lid off his soda and stirs it around with his straw and listens to it fizzle, not drinking yet. He makes a grunt at the date word, his smart mouth still feeling pretty remedial, for once. "I do it all to myself. I'm talented like that. Get out from behind us, I got you something, too. How generous we all are."

"I offered to take him on a tropical cruise, apparently he is lethally allergic to even the suggestion of tourists," Ida is posed against the booth, head tilted, legs crossed, completely at ease with a little bit of playful curiousity showing. "But you got me a present? That is so thoughtful of you, I do appreciate it. I will have to get you something nice as well." She makes a cheerful little oooh noise at Eddie's comment, eyes widening.

Denver is already settling into the booth next to Eddie, the package that she had is quickly shoved towards Ida. "Be very careful opening that," she offers with a grin. Inside are weapons, because what other kind of presents do Summers offer? A pair of pure iron throwing knives, which will come in handy with all these pesky Loyalists and Gentry roaming around. "Got myself a fancy sword with the stuff, too." She pats the case. "Better safe than sorry. Didn't get you a gun with iron bullets, figured that fancy new one is probably even better, since those bullets cut through me." And she's tough to cut through. For her? She looks at Eddie, head tilting.

Eddie scoots over to make room for the ogre. Lucky that neither of them takes up much space, in the cramped booths they've got in here. He observes the unboxing of the knives, and he lets out a little whistle. "Are you sure I'm not interrupting a date?" He starts rummaging around in his coat, looking for his present. It's not as impressive, when he comes out with it. A couple sheets of printer paper folded together, with a xerox of what looks like somebody's diary on them, badly crumpled and stained the way everything he carries for any length of time tends to be. Mustard, it looks like, this time. He slides them over to Denver. "I just wear a gun to feel like a big man, anyway. I hardly ever shoot anybody."

"Oh my," goes the knife thrower, raising one gleaming hand to her chest. Ida smiles - and it's a truly delighted smile, sweet like sunshine. Moonlight. And murder. The way to this heart is apparently the old fashioned sort: sharp melee weaponry. "That is indeed a thoughtful gift. I am a little speechless, I must say. You are a woman of impeccable taste." Moving finally, she nudges her hip at Eddie in response to *his* interrupting a date comment, then slinks over to the counter to pick up the meal. Returning swiftly, she puts the BLTs by Eddie's side along with one of the bags of fries, then gestures between the Ogre and the milkshakes. "Would you like the blackberry or the orange creamsicle? They are both the flavor of the month." As is she, judging by the way the poor sodajerk's eyes is following her back. The unfortunate soul is about to give himself a frontful of frosty rootbeer back in the kitchen. Maybe it's for the best.

"They'll come in handy, so it's worth it," Denver assures with a grin as she reaches out to claim the blackberry milkshake. "Thanks! But yeah, pretty women need pretty weapons." She pats the case beside her again before reaching out to take the paper from Eddie. She sips from the shake as she reads, her eyes widening a little bit more with each paragraph. She quietly folds the paper back up and slides it back in the fly-man's direction. "Guess I better get my shit in order, huh? Not that I've got much. But I do have some money stashed, so a will is a good idea."

"I could always hang on to that for you," Eddie suggests, helpfully. "Just for safe keeping." He starts unwrapping his sandwiches and picking off the lettuce. He could have had them ordered that way, of course, but he has too much respect for the institution. "You might not need it, though. I mean, not any more than anybody else, who runs after trouble like you do. We met this awful lady in the park who seemed to know a little more about these things." His face twists into a sneer, and he suddenly finds his appetite, feeling a sudden need to savage something that used to be alive between his teeth. "At least," he continues with his mouth full, "she sure wanted to give that impression."

Someone's a mind reader. Ida smiles, lifting a napkin on her own plate to reveal an additional burger: it's a greasy monstrosity, the kind only a hungry fly could stomach. She slides that over to Eddie as well, then goes about nibbling on her fries. "I am reluctant to talk about That Woman," you can almost hear the bold capitals and the (tm) in her voice, "while we are eating, but yes. Quite so." She puts the bundle of sharp bits away within the safe depths of her trench coat. "And no need for wills, Denver. Let us not think in such directions yet, please. I can be awfully stubborn when I have to."

"Sounds like someone that needs to be punched in the face. Want me to punch her in the face?" Is that a hopeful look on Denver's face? Probably! She does love to fight, after all. "Of course there's a need for wills, even outside of this situation, I am being hunted. Someone could get lucky." She smirks. "I'm hoping there's a way to avoid the fate listed on that paper, but it's my job to protect us all, and if that means going out in a literally blaze of glory, then I damn well will."

Eddie gets real quiet, and he's careful to look anywhere but at Ida. Probably it's a good thing there's a Summer made of lava sitting next to him, to disguise the sudden chill at his end of the table. It isn't his job to protect anybody, not really, but that little nod he gives looks a lot like solidarity. "Still," he shakes it off, and gets back to eating, "better not punch her. You're liable to take her head off, and we might need it to put a crown on. Apparently I'm just the understudy, and we had people picked out for this. Maybe they drew straws, or maybe we just picked people we wouldn't mind seeing dead. I could believe that. You could, too, if you were there."

"Perhaps a raincheck. I would not mind having a "get someone punched in the face" free ticket, that does sound nice." Ida continues to nibble on her fries, apparently not noticing that Eddie is going through a 'late November in Siberia' bit of chill. She has a sip of her orange creamsicle shake, all dainty with the claws. "That Woman seemed to indicate she had volunteered for it, but then she was also implying all kinds of things. Like that she knew us, even though she clearly had no idea of what any of us were actually like. A strange sort of theatre." She nods her head along with Denver's words. "Perhaps you will have a choice as to what part of the world to set ablaze in, what was it, ten thousand square miles of fire? If you have not made up your mind yet, I will be happy to offer you a list." There's those dimples again.
"Well, sounds like she'd be better off dead, and I'd like for you guys to survive this whole thing, so I guess we can keep her head on. How about an open palmed slap instead? Way more demoralizing, too!" Denver smirks. "If there are people picked out, why aren't they showing themselves? Other than Jack I've seen no others of my kind around." Her brows knit a little. "Are you sure she's not some kind of trap?" she glances between Eddie and Ida, laughing in the direction of the later. "Well, as long as there's somewhere that innocents don't get hurt, I'm all for a little direction.

"Not even a little bit," Eddie says, taking out his unkind feelings on what's left his sandwich. When that's gone he goes to work on the secret burger Ida revealed a moment ago, and holds the second BLT out on offer to Denver. "Those are all good questions. I asked some of them myself, for all the good it did us. That's actually all that's got my hopes up. If it was a trick, you'd think she'd have spun a better line of chatter than just looking at me like some Sunday school teacher who just caught a couple kids playing doctor between the pews." His soda has gone flat from all that stirring he did earlier, but he doesn't seem to mind, not bothering with the straw and crunching obnoxiously on the ice. "I'll get some answers, either way. That's my job."

"I do feel it all seems like a trap. I wonder about these violet-and-silver memories, and I think they might be fake too. But I am not sure how to break out of this. The track we are pushed to follow has clear edges where if you try to cross it bad things happen. As such," Ida gives a faint sigh, pushing the rest of her food to the side. "It is a vexing situation. But yes, I am also determined to find out the truth. I am not one to sit idle." She offers some fries to Denver. A smile. Sudden, like lethal flowers after a rainstorm. "But it occurs to me. Our mutual friend has some guests that we have yet to speak with, does she not?"

"That's the problem with missing memories. You can't base anything off of fact. You have to go with your gut, and frankly, I'd trust your guts over written proof at this point." Denver offers a little shrug. Never one to turn down food, she grabs the BLT with a thanks and takes a big bite. "Vexing is a good word for it. That bitch keeps coming after us, which means we're moving in the right direction either way, yeah?" She grins at Ida.

"You don't want to listen to my gut right now, trust me," Eddie says. He seems to regret changing his mind about eating, a little. It doesn't stop him, of course, in for a penny. "Ida's right, though. Some feather boys made the mistake of causing trouble out in Forks. A friend of ours has them in her basement, now. Might get something out of them." That's that, for the burger, one more vanquished foe. He slumps a little against the side of the booth and scratches at his itching arm. "And there's some other guy around, and Autumn with a revival tent, who might remember some things from before. Maybe there's one of every flavor."

"It is rather a full schedule, all these people to talk to, sometimes dynamically. Denver, would you like to come along when we have a chat with them? We can play bad cop, worse cop." Ida smiles, stretching, turning and twisting as if to make her spine pop a little. "I claim dibs on being the worser option. It has been much too long. Though at this point I am wondering if they might not simply be pickled after that long in the basement. Perhaps simply talking with new people will be enough. We will have to see."

"Revival tent? Don't we have any Autumns in town who specialize in that, uh, that sort of information gathering? Maybe some sort of goblin fruit that makes people tell the truth?" Denver grins a little at the idea, wondering if that's even a thing. She finishes off the milkshake. "Pickled wouldn't be helpful, though, sadly. Alive and unpickled is best for intel gathering. I'd be happy to stand nearby and look menacing? I may be small, but the volanic thing it pretty helpful when it comes to looking mean."

"If there was a fruit that could solve this, trust me, our pal would've solved it by now," Eddie says. All this talk about interrogation makes him a little uncomfortable, it's obvious, but from the sound his stomach's making that's not the only thing. He grabs the greasy wrapper from his BLT and pulls out a pen, scribbling out some address out in Forks and sliding it over to Denver, then practically crawls over her to get out of the booth on his rush to get outside. "Sorry, I—" he doesn't finish, headed for the door, leaving the Fairest to finish up the apologies and follow after to check on him. He hasn't puked since he was human, so at least this ought to be novel.

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