[Closed] [Mature] Our Young Faces

[Tom Cooke]

En Route to Grease, Eggs, and Warmth

What Fucking Time Is It on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

H
ad he heard a snort?

Damn, he didn’t know; whatever it was, it hadn’t quite pushed its way past the ringing in his head, the ringing all that light and noise made even louder. The rattle of the key in the lock was like a needle in his ear, and by the time he’d got his eyes open enough to survey the street – to look at the pennant – it was like a weight had settled on his skull, relentless.

That was the way of it, he supposed. You thought it was easing off, and then it doubled down like a man shoving your head back into the bucket after giving you some minutes’ reprieve. And when it came back, it was always worse than it’d been, always such that you thought it’d last forever, getting worse and worse ‘til you crumbled under it like a spider under the sole of a shoe. And when it eased off, it was like a gods’ flooding gift, like a Token; that, or it seemed like you’d never hurt at all, for all you craved the buzz twice as bad.

No, he wasn’t going to have thoughts like that, not now. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already fallen off the wagon. He’d been tangled up in the kenser’s hooves last night, at the party; it’d been some time last week, he felt sure, he’d fallen off the wagon proper, sometime during that whirl of parties, when Etienne’s whinge had got to be too much, when carrying round a half-full glass hadn’t been quite enough –

Last night, at the party? Last night, at the party –

“Snowing,” he repeated numbly, covering up his face with his hand. He dug his fingernails in against the splitting ache, groaning. “It’s fucking snowing.”

No party, he thought. No fucking party. No party, no champagne, no him. It is, Charlie said, and he heard a groan like an echo. The wind picked up, and it seemed to cut right through Anatole’s coat and even the thick denim and roughspun work shirt underneath. He shifted to lean a moment on the railing, curling his toes in his shoes; he found himself wishing he’d asked to borrow a pair of socks. And a pair of boots, come to think of it, for all he wasn’t sure if Charlie’s would’ve fit. He must’ve looked ridiculous, bedraggled golly coat, denim trousers peeping out underneath – surreal enough by themselves – and underneath those a pair of shoes fit for the ballroom, bedraggled and misshapen and probably with cigarette butts stuck to the soles.

Fuck me, groaned Charlie.

He managed to kick himself into motion when he heard the other man start down the stairs. Whatever the hell he was – whoever the hell he was – whoever the hell Charlie was, Almond or Ewing or Narkissos, he didn’t want to be left alone on these stairs in the snow. And there was another rough twist of an ache in his stomach, and the thought of eggs and grease was even more of a spur than the chill.

He’d the pipe in his hand, leastways, and he took a drag; it helped with something, though he couldn’t’ve said what. He almost skidded on the last step, caught himself on the railing, and then fumbled after Charlie.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” he shot back with a sudden grin, which only made his head hurt the worse. “I already have.” Must’ve been Ten’s shit. “Buy me a drink first,” he blurted out anyway, “or at least a good strong cup of Anaxi tea?”

A woman, a tall dark-haired nattle they passed, jumped at the brushing of golly fields; she caught their eye, then looked away sharply. He snorted, then winced at the sound. He nearly dropped the pipe when he offered it back to Charlie, raising his brows. “Happy early Clock's Eve, by the way. Alioe fill your - uh - your cup.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - A Picturesque Fucking Morning
On the Way To Grease and Caffeine

Yes, Charlie almost snapped, I can see that. He wasn't what one might call a "morning person", it had to be admitted. Not even lured out by the concept of some greasy spoon kind of a breakfast, which he honestly would have passed up on for the chance of going right back fuck to bed. If it weren't for the whole—the question of company had really driven that far from his mind.

Snow settled lightly on his eyelashes when he looked up. Why the fuck had he looked up? The morning light still stabbed him right in the back of his head, even through the ceiling of grey cloud cover. Charlie blinked, trying to scatter the flakes away, but they'd already melted. So now his eyelashes were just damp. Delightful. Circle take the snow. Take all of Ophus with them too, while they were at it. Charlie was a summer child, through and through.

He could hear the sound of footsteps—the sharp strike of ballroom shoes. Charlie hadn't thought to ask if the other man needed... socks, or... Well, he thought and hunched his shoulders in his coat, his only obligation to Cherry was to make sure her father didn't die here. Nobody died of a lack of socks. Blisters at worst.

Besides, he'd already lent out—he really didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't seem to help it. Swinging back around, throwing a glance over his shoulder to see denim trousers, his denim trousers, peeking out from the hem of that coat. Charlie was being downright magnanimous, he thought. And Cherry would never even know. He wasn't sure why he bothered.

His preoccupation with the weather and his head and the presence or absence of adequate sock distribution left him open to the sudden grin and the joke that came with it. Charlie laughed again, too loud and sharp for the street and the hour and his headache. He'd walked into that one, he thought, and he slowed his step a little so there was less space between the two of them. So nobody got lost.

"I'm buying your whole damn breakfast," Charlie reminded him cheerfully, mouth pulled into a smirk. "I feel like that should at least count for—" A woman jumped as she got close enough for the brush of their fields, dark-haired and in a hurry. She had to get fairly close, Charlie noted with that strange mixture of displeasure and resignation. She gave them a look like they'd done it on purpose, to sneak up on her.

"—Some hand action," he called loudly over his shoulder at her retreating back. There was a sharp pulse in his skull, but Charlie felt it was worth it. When he turned back around, the pipe was being offered to him again. He'd almost forgotten, and took it a little too quickly for his own comfort. He wasn't the biggest fan of pipes, he had to admit. They made him feel like—well, he thought with a twist of his mouth, they certainly suited Anatole.

Somehow, despite the cold and the snow and all that other seasonally appropriate chroveshite, the next bit took him off-guard. Early...? Well, shit. It was about that time. They passed by a door with a sort of half-hearted garland of greenery and silver bells. Clock's Eve. The whole year had gone by, he thought, without him hardly having noticed. He didn't know how that made him feel, and he didn't want to.

"What? Oh. Yeah, uh. Happy... you too. Tell, uh Cer— No, nevermind." What the fuck had that almost been? What the fuck was wrong with him? It was too early, that's what. No self-respecting degenerate was up at this hour. He took another draw from the pipe, and then held it back out. He did not, he told himself firmly, need any more of that. Yet.

[Tom Cooke]

En Route to Grease, Eggs, and Warmth

A Disappointingly Respectable Hour on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

A
laugh from the surly morning lad, then. And how it slid right through his headache like a riff; he felt it like it’d cracked his godsdamned skull, and he felt – again – like he was going to come pouring out of himself like an egg yolk. But it tickled him, and he was grinning all the wider, in spite of everything else he should’ve been feeling.

He’d been walking into that one for the last twelve hours. It was the vindication, he thought, that was making him smile. Not the laugh he’d wrung from the poor, pretty, hungover sod.

Charlie raised his voice and tossed it over his shoulder at the nattle. All at once, his headache gave another painful spur; and all at once, he was laughing, a snort that dissolved into a wretched little giggle. Charlie took the pipe, and he took the opportunity to press the heel of his palm to his forehead, bowing his head to block out what little of the sun filtered greyly through the clouds. He was still laughing when he caught another waft of earthy smoke.

“At least,” he grunted in agreement, forcing his face back into its customary frown. He frowned very dignifiedly indeed over at Charlie – as dignified as he could, with his head on one side half-wincing. “We’ll see where dessert gets you,” he added.

There were more looks, of course, though most folk didn’t look quite so surprised as the nattle. He got more of them than the mechanic, at least from a distance. It was, all the same, a sort of attention he was accustomed to by now; he’d slummed it enough in the Dives and elsewhere to know what he looked like, regardless of how you dressed him up. He’d passed for a tsat once, but only barely, and there had been whispers all over the factory. Charlie wasn’t so terribly tekaa himself, even before he opened his mouth. It hadn’t been for nothing that pretty face had drawn him from all the way across the bar, once.

It was the eyes that looked away he felt more, now he was adjusting to the blaring light and noise of the quiet morning street. Charlie took another drag on the pipe, and more smoke curled round them, like a field of its own.

Charlie stumbled on the words – happy you too – which nearly made him laugh again, if it hadn’t been for the name he cut himself off halfway through; Cer, he thought, Cer –

Fuck, he mouthed, at the same instant Charlie said, No, never mind.

“Uh,” he grunted. Then there was a pipe, and he took it gratefully; he took a long drag on it, steadying his nerves and wringing them out all at once.

Cherry, he thought. Cherry – Cerise. He’d a faint muddled imagining: a lass like a little Diana, sitting at the edge of his sickbed, wide blue eyes… No, he thought, no, that was the other one. He couldn’t get his head straight. It was the dark-headed one, he felt sure, the one from the letters he threw into the fireplace.

You know his daughter’s name? he thought, glancing over at Charlie sharply, swallowing what felt like a bit of shrapnel.

Charlie’s eyes were on the street ahead. If he expected that narrow pale face to look any different, even underneath the snow-dusted brim of his Brunnhold cap, it didn’t. If he expected to feel any differently at the sight of a little glistening moisture on his long dark lashes, he didn’t.

Then a snowflake landed in his eye, cold and raw, and he blinked and grunted and palmed it roughly away. “Uh,” he said again, passing the pipe back, squinting round at the facades. Trying to think of a way to change the subject they both seemed so keen on.

That creeping sense of familiarity doubled down. “This is – shit, this is Alder Street, isn’t it? Say, we’re not going to – old Bayley’s not still in business, is he? With that old hingle he loves so much?”

It’d been a few years, he thought a little sadly. Bessy hadn’t been that old, but it was hard to tell.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - A Reputable Hour For Disreputable People
On the Way To Grease and Caffeine

Yeah, he shouldn't have mentioned Cherry. That was just too fucking weird, and there was already plenty of that going on here. He could tell Anatole agreed; he just sort of grunted and took the pipe back from him. Charlie felt a little regret as it left his hand. Now he had nothing to do but keep walking. He shoved his hands in his coat pocket and stared resolutely ahead, thinking about eggs.

That's why he said nevermind, he whined in his head. Shit. Hadn't even said her whole name. Hadn't mentioned the little one either, had he? Not that he knew that one; he wasn't precisely in the habit of making friends with... much of anyone. He hadn't even made friends with Cherry on purpose, if you could call them friends. Which he wasn't sure they were. Charlie Ewing didn't have friends.

Well, things changed. He'd not said a word to her in... shit, too long for him to remember. So that was fine then. No reason to think about this any more.

He did change his mind about the pipe though, and took it back when he was handed to him. Five seconds ago it had seemed like a better idea not to, but if he knew anything, it was that Past Charlie was a fucking idiot. They weren't far off from the place, anyway, which was great. Just another block or so and they'd be there and—well, fuck, he'd think of something else to say between now and then. Literally anything other than talking about the elder Vauquelin daughter, or any other member of the household, would do just fucking fine.

Smoking, that's what he was doing. The herbal smell of it was a pleasant enough distraction. It was too early for this. All of it. The conversation, the smoking, the being awake. The godsdamn snow. Yet here it all was, so what the fuck, right? No matter how bad an idea this was, he was fairly sure it wasn't fatal. None of his ideas had been so far.

All around them, of course, was the seemingly unending bustle of upstanding citizens—or as close to it as they got around here—going about their normal business. Very few were bold enough to do a double-take at the sight of them, though Charlie had lived here long enough to know they noticed. He just didn't give a shit. Let them look. He didn't live his life for these people, or for anyone other than himself.

Charlie looked over, sharper than he meant to, eyebrows raised to somewhere around the brim of his old school hat. (Another thing he regretted, but he really did look very good in it. Maybe not the with the rest of the outfit, but that was fine.) What the fuck was that? He had a dim recollection of a lot of stories that didn't make any sense in the last twelve hours. Well, the stories made sense. Just not from the storyteller.

"It is," he agreed slowly, squinting as much against his headache as anything. "And we are. No idea about the—no hingle, I don't think." As far as Charlie knew. He shrugged, and looked away again. The snow was at least not very heavy. He still had to concentrate not to slip; yet another reason to hate the whole damn season. Slick streets.

"I didn't realize," Charlie added lightly, with a bit of his more usual grin, "that Incumbents led such decadent lifestyles as to include dessert after breakfast." There, he could handle that topic. Even if the general festive cheer looked moderately judgmental right now. It was barely past sunrise; the festive cheer could simmer the fuck down. There was plenty of time for that later, like on the holiday itself.

[Tom Cooke]

En Route to Grease, Eggs, and Warmth

A Disappointingly Respectable Hour on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

C
erise. Cherry, he’d said earlier, like he – no.

No.

Cerise, thrummed his headache, the name wobbling up on its legs and tapping at the windows of his mind anyway. If he thought it enough, over and over again, the two syllables started to lose meaning. They unraveled; they were just sounds, sounds to which he couldn’t seem to ascribe meaning. Eleanor, he knew, if only a little: a shy deep-voiced stutter, bringing a jar to his bedside with something jumping against the glass. Eleanor, he heard in Diana’s voice, you know how your father feels about bugs. I thought seeing something new might help him, Mother.

Eleanor, he remembered, sharper, breathless, no, Eleanor, not in there. A headache worse than this one. Scrambling through a stranger’s dresser for anything recognizable, anything, curses falling out of his trembling lips, hands that wouldn’t work right, knuckles he bashed against wood in his panic, door open a crack pale face blue eyes get away lass –

Cerise, he thought over and over again, settling into the comforting meaninglessness of the syllables. Cerise, Cerise, Cerise.

Cherry had meaning; he didn’t want to think about Cherry.

Charlie’d looked at him sharp when he’d brought up Bayley. He’d seen it in the corner of his eye, and he’d felt a familiar twinge, one he couldn’t bother to think too hard on this morning. I don’t think either of us wants me to be who I am, he wanted to say, whatever that means to you, so let me be this instead.

He sighed. “Ah, damn,” he murmured. It was easy enough to distract himself with that. He wondered when it’d been; he thought she’d been chugging along still, snuffling at patrons’ plates and stealing bacon a couple of years ago, when he’d seen Bayley last to collect the King’s dues.

You and me both, Bessy, he thought sadly. “Circle guide her on,” he said. “She took a fried egg right off my plate, once. Just dragged it right off.”

He didn’t look up much at the passing buildings. It was hard enough to keep his footing. The rain and the cold had turned the slush slippery. It wasn’t proper ice yet, but where the snow was settling, it was hard to tell. Keeping his eye on the walk, leastways, kept him from looking up at any of the folk who were or weren’t looking at them, and – better – kept him from looking over at Charlie, whose sly grin he could see in the corner of his eye.

The snow had picked up, whirling white against the marble sky. “Would you be surprised to hear,” he asked, stage-hushed, “that dessert after breakfast is the least of parliament’s decadence –?”

He’d broken eye contact with his shoes to look over at Charlie, mock wide-eyed, and that was his mistake. He let out a surprised grunt as the stones slid out from underneath his damp ballroom shoes, and his erse hit cold Vita.

At least Charlie had been holding the pipe. There was a giggle from a passing skirt – he got a decent glimpse of the shoes, and a little bit of a stocking – quickly-stifled in field range. He dusted off his hems, groaning.

The sign was there not too far away, he saw, pausing to blink up. Above an awning hung in bedraggled silver ribbon: Bayley’s, or more accurately ayle, where the paint had chipped off. He breathed in the smell of starch frying in not-terribly-fresh oil with another groan. Out drifted a burst of rough laughter, and the sound of clinking metal.

“Uh. Help me up?” He held out a hand, fingers already numb and stiff with the cold; he squinted up at Charlie’s silhouette.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - A Reputable Hour For Disreputable People
Outside of Bayley's, Cantile

Hmm. Charlie wasn't entirely certain what hingles ate, admittedly, but he couldn't help but feel the absence of the creature and the stealing of entire fried eggs were related events. Irrespective of omnivore status, the sheer amount of lard that was involved in the egg frying process couldn't be particularly good for an animal of that size. He was a little sad, thinking about it, and he'd never seen the fucking rodent. He didn't even like hingles in particular. He'd had a roommate in lower form who tried to smuggle one into their room to keep as a pet, with the brilliant idea of using a cardboard box to do it. This had not gone particularly well, for either the child or the hingle.

Charlie didn't say any of that, though. He was already thinking about school more than he wanted to. No need to perpetuate it like some sort of clock-stoppingly thick masochist. Which he was not, no matter what some people seemed to think. He didn't ask if Anatole just liked small animals with no manners, either, even though it might have been funny. Tippy's manners were excellent, anyway.

The snow was coming down heavier now. Charlie tried not to think about what that meant for after they'd eaten. Charlie really tried not to think that far ahead in the day at all, because if he started down that path there were all kinds of questions to ask that he didn't want answers to. The swirl of white was making everything feel quieter. His headache strongly disagreed with that assessment of the volume level, but it felt that way anyway in all the rest of him.

"No!" he gasped, the picture of horrified sensibilities. "You can't meant to tell me—"

Whatever hilarious thing Charlie might have said was abruptly sidelined. There was a glance in his direction, swiftly followed by a surprised grunt and the sound of flesh impacting the street. It was rude, to laugh at other people's misfortunes. Charlie did it anyway. Well, nothing seemed permanently injured. Probably. He wouldn't keep laughing, at least, if that proved to be the case. A woman started to giggle as she passed, so he wasn't the only one. He just kept doing it when she stopped, face turning pinched and red when she got close enough to feel two of the least impressive fields on Vita.

"It's slippery," he offered mildly, looking down. They were just a hop, skip and a jump away from being back inside, so Charlie couldn't think it was too bad. More damage to the dignity than to the body. And it had been very funny, so he could hardly blame himself for laughing. He held out his hand, taking it out of the safety and warmth of his pocket.

Charlie's feet slid a little as he helped haul the other man to his feet. He, however, was wearing shoes with treads; they held where the slick ballroom shoes faltered. Alioe his hands were cold. Didn't he have gloves? Charlie wasn't wearing any, but he had them. They were just back in his flat, sitting on top of his dresser. Uselessly so, but still. That was him, and ergo was completely different. "No permanent damage?" This was less a question and more a statement of assumed fact.

He didn't want to linger around out here in particular. There was snow, for one thing, and for another they were close enough to smell fried starch and salt and oil. Charlie's stomach twisted, painfully. Being out here did not get either of them any nearer to solving that particular issue. So really, the sooner they moved on the better. He didn't even have the energy to tilt this into something—else, fuck, he didn't know. Eggs, he thought, and potatoes and... And not being out here any more.

[Tom Cooke]

En Route to Grease, Eggs, and Warmth

A Disappointingly Respectable Hour on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

H
e grumbled something under his breath, but it was drowned out by the sound of Charlie’s laughter. His lip twitched.

His hip ached. There were a great many aches and pains, and not all of them were from the cold or the walk over, or even the hangover; his muscles were strained in a way they hadn’t been in a while. Even through his coat and his trousers, the stones were hard and cold against his erse, and he could feel the chill damp leaching through the fabric. Snow was settling in the folds of his coat and the mess of his hair; he blinked it out of his eyes.

Charlie was looking down at him, and he was looking up. It wasn’t, he thought, an unfamiliar position, and he kicked himself hard for thinking it. At first he was a dark blur swimming against the aching-bright sky; then his eyes adjusted, and he could make out the set of his eyebrows and his thin, not-quite-smiling lips.

It’s slippery, he offered.

Fuck you this time, he wanted to shoot back. He let out a tiny choked noise instead, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He blinked and squinted, and his eyes came back into focus on a set of long, pale fingers.

“Huh,” he grunted, “you ought to be a Seventen.” He took Charlie’s hand with a firm grip. It was pleasantly warm, at least by contrast. His own must’ve been damned cold, and clammy from dusting the snow off himself.

He shifted up off his erse, teetering a little on his feet, feeling denim chafe him in places he’d rather not’ve thought about. His feet hurt, too, as they always did; he wasn’t sure why a man would keep a closet full of shoes that pinched his feet – fine, polished golly shoes, a shoe for every occasion, more shoes even than Diana – but not even last night’s misadventures had broken these in.

Then – one mant, messy pull. He felt Charlie slide; his heart leapt up to his throat, and he cursed vividly under his breath. But it was brief, and they managed.

He grunted, sniffing loudly. His nose was running. “Do I look intact?” He let out a scrape of a laugh. He grinned at Charlie, a wince of a thing through his headache, disentangling his stiff hand and shoving it back into his coat pocket.

Thanks, he couldn’t quite bring himself to say. He didn’t have to; the lad had that restless look about him, and he was fixed firmly ahead, and he couldn’t blame him. It was a funny feeling, this, anyway – one he couldn’t put his finger on – one he didn’t want to put his finger on; the hungry lurch of his stomach was a much easier target.

Another lungful of that benny frying smell, and he kicked himself into motion.

He did a better job of keeping his eyes on the stones this time. He still nearly slipped again as they came under the awning.

All the Clock’s Eve tinsel in Anaxas couldn’t have made Bayley’s look a whit more cheerful than it was. It was a squat, grey building, and mostly windowless, except for the kitchen window round the back, from which steam and the sound of Bayley’s hoarse yelling occasionally spilled – and the upstairs windows, which had been boarded up for years. The door opened as they came near, and the creak of the hinges was almost as loud as the old cowbell hanging from the knob.

A glamour brushed out into the cold, followed by a tired-looking tsat in a baggy sack of a grey uniform. He squinted over them as he paused to light his spur; he stepped out into the street and let the door bang shut behind him before he’d even got the match lit.

He grunted, then caught the door himself, creaking it open. There was an immediate rush of warm air, and the smell was strong enough he thought he might’ve fainted, if he hadn’t had the door to hold him upright.

“Where’s Ellis? Where’s the fuckin’ tumble lad?” There was a bashing sound, and a thump.

“Ain’t seen him,” a woman called back gruffly.

“I ain’t got but two hands…” There was a familiar wheeze and a thump of heavy footsteps, and the voice blurred into the laughter and clinking of dishes. As his eyes adjusted to the hazy dark inside, he could see a long bar scattered with ashtrays, a few huddled figures sitting on rickety stools.

A heavyset woman in an apron moved by, snatching up a plate of half-eaten eggs from a nearby table and disappearing behind the bar without a word to the natt still holding his fork. She didn’t spare them a glance.

“After you? Since you’ve been such a gentleman,” he said, gesturing.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - A Reputable Hour For Disreputable People
Outside of Bayley's, Cantile

He most assuredly should not be a Seventen. As the other man took his hand, Charlie shot him a withering look that said exactly this with no ambiguity. For one thing, there was entirely too much running around for his sensibilities, and the potential to violence involving his person besides. For another, he'd—"dated" wasn't the right word, really, for what their relationship had been, but he'd been rather familiar with one ensign in particular. Charlie was quite certain he wanted very little to do with that whole situation.

There was some teetering and a lot of muttered swearing as Charlie clasped his cold, thin hand with his own. Especially when he slid on the walk—just a little! A lack of faith, that's what this was. Charlie wasn't a tall man, or a large one, but he was sturdier than he seemed. Moderately. He was at least wearing more sensible shoes. Granted, he had more sensible shoes to wear, seeing as they'd left his flat.

"Not at all," he agreed cheerfully, taking in the sniffling, the nose red from the cold and running besides, the wince. The laugh, too; Charlie was grinning back, even as he stuffed his hands back into his pockets so he didn't get frostbite and lose the use of both of them. He needed those. You know, in case he ever found work again. For when he found work again.

Besides that, breakfast and the helpful hand were more than enough sacrifice from Charlie Ewing. Especially for someone who couldn't even muster up a polite "thank you". Charlie thought about hearing that, actually, and he felt vaguely ill. Or maybe that was just the hangover; probably a combination of both, liberally aided by the emptiness of his stomach and the fullness of his head.

That part of it was a solvable problem. Framing it that way made him think of last night. He pushed the thought firmly out of his head. He could revisit that later—that was for alone-Charlie time. Not for sitting-in-public-dressed-like-this time. Bayley's counted as public, Charlie thought. It didn't have any windows or indeed charm of any kind, from an architectural standpoint, but it counted as public. There were people in it, usually. At this wretched, unholy hour? Probably more than one person. Charlie shuddered to think of it.

The muscles in Charlie's shoulders tense as Anatole slipped again, just a bit, when they came under the awning. Bracing himself to—he didn't know. Whatever it was, it didn't stop him from snickering, feeling particularly smug about his boots now. His mother would have hated them, Charlie thought fondly; they were what he wore when he was in the shop (a shop, whatever shop he was working out of at the time), all steel toes and battered leather. Ugly, he thought, but functional. And they went better with the whole "laboring classes" look he was sporting than any of his others.

Almost assuredly more than one person, Charlie realized as the bedraggled glamour brushed by them both. It was an eight. The start of the work day. Fuck him running, there might even be—oh, this was a particularly wretched thought—families, for those who didn't work such a schedule. He prayed, silently but with great fervor, that there would be no children at any of the tables. Even the hypothetical of a small voice screeching anywhere near this headache made a pulse of pain go through him.

"Why thank you," Charlie said as he stepped inside, laying heavy emphasis on the phrase. See? Unlike some people, he had basic manners. The fact that he chose to ignore them so often didn't mean that he didn't have them. Holding the door, Charlie thought solemnly, was the least one could do. For a brief moment, he contemplated if he had been serious a bit ago, about hand action. He didn't think he was, but he wouldn't have said no either. Hmm. A thought to tuck away for a later time. Best not to examine it now.

Once inside, Charlie stoutly ignored the bar and the ashtrays. The stools were too tall for him; the lower races, Charlie thought with a grimace, were too clocking large. He had no interest in letting his feet wobble around like a child. Instead, he made a direct line for a reasonably clean-looking table. One or two of the slouched figures at the bar did a double-take as they passed, and the woman on the bar stool closest to the table Charlie chose rather obviously got up and moved a few stools further away. Good. Quieter that way.

"Always forget it's so clocking loud in here." Charlie muttered the comment mostly to himself as he slid into a seat. Coffee, eggs. Fried potatoes. Fried meat, too, maybe, if he was feeling particularly decadent. And if he could afford it; he hadn't, in fact, actually checked.

[Tom Cooke]

Bayley’s, sans Bessy

Too Loud an Hour on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

A
nd how very welcome you are,” he murmured, raising both of his brows as Charlie drifted in past him. He wasn’t sure he’d meant to say that, either; he wasn’t sure he’d meant to say a lot of things, this morning and the night before. Something about that grin, and even that pina shit-eating snicker when he’d slipped a second time.

Not at all? he’d wanted to retort, mock-offended. And with what flattery you got me into your bed last –

Not thinking about that, godsdamn.

Shutting out the cold felt like the best decision he’d made all morning. One last chilling drought to stir his hair and shiver right through his coat, and then – warmth, prickling in every inch of his skin. And the smell, too: the whole world was an amalgam of frying eggs and cheese and a hundred other scents, some more burnt than others, each as distinct and part of the whole as the Circle. And Circle blessed.

“Shit,” the nattle in the apron was saying, “shit, shit, shit,” brushing by with two heavy-looking metal plates in her hand. He’d shut his eyes for a moment against his headache, just to take in the smells and the warmth; she nearly bumped into him, and didn’t spare him another glance, in and out of his field just like that.

“Beth! Need you back here!”

“Shit –“

His head ached.

He’d started toward the bar, where he’d always sat years ago; he’d even started taking off his coat, well-worn habit. His eyes went instinctively to a shelf behind the bar, where a – usually empty – cage had once sat, but found it crowded with dusty-looking jars instead. He frowned.

Charlie was moving toward one of the low tables, and he couldn’t’ve said he minded being a little more out of the way. He folded his coat over his arm, trailing after the lad. A man at the bar, another rumpled grey uniform and a cigarette in his gnarled fingers, looked over his shoulder sharp at the brush of a field, tucking his head right back down into his eggs. His stomach twisted; he found he didn’t care. If the kov’d cared enough to abandon his plate right there, he might’ve eaten the eggs right off it, just like Bessy.

The nattle at the end, who’d gotten up, was cruel enough to take her plate with her. He caught the corner of her gaze as she went; there was something familiar about her face, and he didn’t much like the feeling, so he looked down.

His shoes, still faintly polished, clicked on the filthy tile.

Charlie, he thought curiously, watching him sit, looked every bit the – part – except for all the parts that didn’t fit. He was all work boots and rumpled denim, still trailing smoke from his pipe, with that Brunnhold lad’s cap on his head in the middle of it.

He eased down into a seat, grunting irritatedly with the effort, setting his coat in a bundle to one side. “Huh. I always forget how loud the whole clocking world is,” he mumbled, squinting out over the cramped cafe.

Another natt came in, bundled in his coat, and went to the bar. Beth was in and out. Seated, with the hat off and his ballroom shoes tucked under the table, they weren’t getting too many looks; he realized this slowly, and with a funny churning in his stomach, one he didn’t think was hunger.

Couple of mechanics, he thought fleetingly. He looked down at his hands on the table, soft and uncallused, emerging from the stained sleeves of his too-big shirt. It was a fleeting thought.

“Ewing,” came Beth’s sharp voice.

He glanced up, wincing.

Her forehead was slick with sweat; she was looking at Charlie first, then – looking at him, and both of her thick dark eyebrows rose almost to the little curl at her hairline. “Huh,” she grunted, like she could barely believe it. “You brought a friend. Cute.” She looked back at Charlie. “What’ll it be, then? Ain’t got time for you to introduce me to the lucky toff.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - Too Early For This
Bayley's Cafe, Cantile

Loud it might be, but it was warm and it was indoors. Charlie felt that this really counted very strongly in the establishment's favor, even leaving out the question of the food itself being perfectly palatable. Nothing to write home about—ha! as if anything was, at this point—but consistently what it was.

It was good to see Beth was just as pleasant in the mornings as she was in the afternoons. Charlie ignored her the same as he ignored everything else that wasn't the low, out-of-the-way table he was seating himself at. He had enough to pay attention to with that, and with keeping hold of the pipe he still, inexplicably, had in his hand. He kept meaning to hand it back, but the opportunity didn't present itself. Smoke curled up from it lazily; Charlie put it in his mouth and held it with his teeth while he took off his coat and hat to set them in a heap next to him. And maybe he smoked it a little more, since it was already there. Now he was done though. Really.

Charlie looked up and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile he snuffed out as Anatole took a seat across from him. Looking out across the cafe like he was expecting something else—too bad, if he was. They were here, and it was this, and so were they. At this hour, he couldn't be bothered to pull his face into his habitual sort of expression, and he also couldn't be bothered to care. Bayley's wasn't exactly the kind of place he needed it, anyway.

"All the people in it, I suspect," Charlie offered dryly and leaned back into his chair. He held the pipe out somewhat impatiently; he was tired of having it in his hand. He wanted use of both of them now, thanks. Speaking of people—another came in and sat at the bar. He looked like he felt about as delightful as either of them; then again, his lot usually did.

Beth's voice cut across his headache liked a rusted saw. Charlie looked at her with his eyebrows raised, but a smile bloomed dazzling anyway. Tired and out-of-sorts as he was, it was still easy. He could do it in his sleep. He probably did. Beth was sweating and had a harried air about her that made Charlie want to speak very, very slowly. He wouldn't, because he didn't want to invite that sort of energy into an already very aggravating kind of morning, but it was tempting. She looked away from him and across the table, to—

Right. He never did come with anyone else. Entirely too close to where he lived. He tried his best not to grimace at the word "friend". They weren't friends, some peevish part of him wanted to say. He didn't have those, for one thing, and for another, even if he did, they weren't it. They weren't anything. Not even neighbors, because Charlie didn't live there anymore and never would again if he had anything to say about the matter. His foot bounced lightly on the floor, too gently to make much of a sound even in his boots.

"I am adorable," Charlie agreed. He shifted and got out his wallet, taking a quick glance inside; clock the entire Circle. Less than he'd hoped. No bacon or anything then, not today. The knowledge sat more awkwardly on his face than anything else had. More than it normally did—normally, of course, he didn't have an audience. Fuck.

Beth didn't dwell on it; Beth didn't dwell on anything, which was about the only good thing Charlie could ever say about the woman. "Two—no, three eggs and hashed potatoes," he went on quickly, "and a coffee. And whatever the lucky toff wants."

Lucky. Charlie was tempted to crack some joke about just how lucky certain people were, but his stomach was empty enough to hurt even without all the smoking he'd done on the way over. He let Anatole order, and as Beth moved off at that feverish pace, he slouched forward, elbows on the table. It was faintly sticky; it was always faintly sticky. He wasn't sure what with, and he didn't want to be.