ot just the people, he wanted to say. The lights, those seemed too damned loud, too; he was grateful to be indoors, because the sky had itself been something like a scream. Snow was loud. The prickling in his skin as feeling crept back into it, the damp of melting snow in his eyebrows, was also very loud. He sniffed and cleared his throat, and that was deafening. The hiss of frying oil and the smells might’ve been loud, too, but they were a sort of loud he thought he could manage, if only for the sake of something warm to put in his gullet.
There was a pipe in his hands; he wasn’t sure when it’d come back to him, or how, but he was grateful for it. He took a draw, steadying himself on it.
He’d a faint recollection of the night before, of thinking whatever in the hell was in this blend wasn’t t’vårue. Well, whatever in the hell last night had been hadn’t been his usual blend, either, and he’d been sober enough by the end of it. Whatever it was, it was taking the edge off same as it’d done then, and loosening him up in ways he resolved not to think too hard about.
I am adorable, Charlie agreed, and he snorted.
But it wasn’t Charlie’s usual blend of expressions he saw, either, looking back over at him through a whirl of smoke. It hadn’t been for some time. His mind wandered not altogether unpleasantly, thinking of him swollen-eyed and tousle-haired, the pillow crease still drawn across his cheek – his mind stumbled over its own feet and shook itself, shivering. He frowned, his brow furrowing. There was a wallet in Charlie’s hands, and he was looking down into it; he couldn’t see what was inside from here, but the expression told him all he might’ve needed to know.
Beth shifted, impatient, nodding at Charlie and nodding again. Three eggs; he raised his brows, glancing over Charlie, unsure why he felt oddly impressed. Nothing like meat, he noticed grimly, thinking again of the wallet.
Whatever the lucky toff wants. He snorted again, almost coughing on the smoke, waving it away languidly. It was so funny he could’ve laughed again. All that ging Anatole had, and he might as well have been broke. Thank you, darling, he almost said.
“And what does the lucky toff want?”
“Eggs,” he blurted out, then cleared his throat. “Uh – scrambled,” he went on, “two – no, three – two. With, uh, cheese, and – a lot of cheese…” He tapped his finger on the table, squinting down. “Hashed potatoes,” he said, “for me, too.”
“How sweet. Boemo,” Beth said, shrugging. “Damn me, I’ll let Bayley figure this one out. Anything with that?” She waved away a tendril of smoke.
“Tea,” he said, sitting up a little. “Black tea.”
“Boemo.” She went, and only cast a glance over her shoulder; he could hear her yelling to the back as she darted behind the bar.
He looked down at the gleaming tabletop, tapping it again. He took another draw on the pipe, then traced his fingertip across, watching the oil come away in a line. He traced out another line to join it, idly, and another, finding the place where two circles met. A line down, a line through it…
A wince spasmed across his face; he was looking at half a clairvoyant invocation. He scribbled through it, coughing on another draw, then went to pass the pipe back.
“Circle clock, what is in this? I already feel better,” he admitted, grimacing and glancing up. “I’ve another damned soirée,” he lisped, ssttthoir-eee, “to go to this evening. I do hope you’ll let me keep some of this shit for later. If I ask nicely?”