Si Waylen (lovelikeblood) wrote in birthrightrpg, @ 2021-12-29 19:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | john abbott, nesryn rowan |
It Could Be Worse
Who: John, Nesryn
What: Conversation
When: Just After Thanskgiving
Where: Searchlight, Terrible’s Roadhouse
John awoke to the blare of a car horn.
It was like being shot out of a cannon: the sudden noise, the morning sun searing his eyes at a level of brightness he rarely experienced. And he felt like shit. It was impossible to say how much the sun was to blame for his headache and lethargy, versus his hangover. A flipped visor did nothing to alleviate his problem. John did catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror: messy hair, a rumpled shirt, a stunned look.
Beyond his windshield, John saw the Roadhouse. If he went inside, he could splash water on his face and get his wits about him before undertaking the drive back to Vegas. He opened the car door and tumbled into the parking lot. A pair of old geezers were staring at him, the man smelling strongly of bacon grease. He waved them off with a, “Get bent,” and staggered into the diner.
The atmosphere inside the diner was quieter than usual; Nesryn didn’t know why. There weren’t any holidays to consider, at least not for another few weeks. She was glad for that. Thanksgiving had been hard on her. But that was behind her now. A piping hot vessel of coffee held by the handle would be poured into varying cups as she moved through the diner. Most of the time she could predict when a cup needed to be filled based on observation. She liked doing this more than she had realized at first.
Setting the pot down on the burner, Nesryn wiped her hands on a small cloth dangling from the side of her apron when she heard the door. The scent of alcohol burned her nose. She turned to see a familiar figure. “You okay?” The werewolf inquired. She moved toward John, plucking up a menu.
“It could be worse.” The vampire took the laminated menu from her fingers. It made a handy shield for his face as he cruised toward the restrooms, dropping it at the last instant on a table. The slick menu skidded to a stop next to a pepper shaker. John was inside for no more than two minutes, long enough to use the facilities, wash his hands, and stare as the drain burped up bubbles. After a moment, he inhaled sharply and looked at the mirror. “I don’t suppose you have any words of wisdom? No? Fresh out, it seems.” That suited him fine. He tore a paper towel loose, dried his hands, and re-entered the public eye.
John reclaimed his menu and located Nesryn, the waitress. “I’m in a bit of a pickle. Where might I find your darkest table? Stygian.”
The man seemed to reappear out of nowhere. There wasn’t any missing the assault of alcohol that gave away those silent, ninja-like stealthy skills. Nesryn frowned a bit. A hand went to her hip and her eyes narrowed a touch as she assessed his request. “Closest to the back there.” There may have also been a few slot machines or something else equally as loud to welcome and entertain those who sought refuge from the windows. “You pick. I’ll bring the coffee.” It was an easy negotiation and she figured he could use something to offset whatever experience he’d been through. Maybe it could’ve been worse. Go figure.
She side-stepped around him to get a cup and the coffee pot. It didn’t take long to make her way back. “So, Mister it could be worse, dare I even ask again if you’re going to be okay?” She didn’t want to intrude, he could tell her unkindly to buzz off if he wanted, but she was one of those types who tried to save as many people as possible and couldn’t help it. The porcelain mug would be set down. She filled it up without asking for permission.
John had selected a rather bleak-looking booth along the wall. There was a slot machine nearby, and the slight chance a customer might climb atop the stool and begin feeding it coins, but he’d deal with such an intrusion if and when it occurred. For now, he had the welcoming cradle of that murky corner of the Roadhouse and it was enough. He picked up a packet of sugar for an object to fiddle with. “Well. Nesryn,” he said, in homage to her nametag. “Assuming my car makes it to Las Vegas and I don’t find myself wandering the desert like one of the Israelites, I’ll persevere.” He took the coffee with a grateful nod and drank it black.
He turned shrewd eyes on her. They narrowed a bit. “I’ve seen you before.”
“Well here’s to hoping you make the drive safely,” the werewolf replied. She set the pot of coffee down carefully on the table on top of the towel withdrawn from her apron. “You were at Lucky’s the other night.” It was a confirmation based solely on an absent observation - she had sharp eyes and keen senses. “And now you know my name.” Not that it mattered one way or the other. She could smell the ominous scent of earth and blood, vampire if she had to guess. Her smile peaked a bit.
A finger would be held up. She moved to the booths nearby and drew the shades down despite a bit of quiet grumbles from the patrons at those tables. The sun was bright from that angle anyway.
“That’s it,” he said, setting the plain white mug on the formica tabletop. John must have taken notice of her before he began his attempt to destroy his liver, an impossible feat for a vampire but one he was bent on achieving. He watched her closing the blinds, thinking it was a kind gesture for a man with a hangover, even more so if she understood he was the type who consumed blood on a regular basis. He briefly gave his attention to the menu, then set it aside because he didn’t feel like chewing anything.
“Nesryn,” he called again. “I wonder if you might do me a favor.” The vampire got out of his seat and took a clean coffee cup from a neighboring table. He returned with it and placed it at the seat across from him.
“Sure,” she replied, game for nearly anything as long as it left the building standing. The gesture of the empty cup would be met with a grin. She poured herself a cup and sat down, tucking a leg beneath herself. Also black, she took the coffee. Once upon a time she liked the frilly stuff, lately though, she didn’t mind the bitter taste. “The pie here is good.” It was.
“Why haven’t I seen you around here before?” She inquired before she could stop herself. This town was small enough for her to know nearly everyone, yet this man was still a familiar shadow on her radar. “You haven’t told me your name, either. But then I guess I didn’t ask.”
“It’s John,” he said. “I don’t come to Searchlight often. Hm.” He frowned and touched his jaw absent-mindedly. “I can’t recall the last time before Thanksgiving. There’s not much to see or do in a town like this, is there? Unless you’re an… outdoor enthusiast or something of the sort. Is that what you are?”
The question was asked with a dual purpose, because he could smell an animal quality that told him she might be a therianthrope, but it might also go some way towards explaining why she was waiting tables there. Usually the people he saw offering refills in diners were older and tired, with orthopedic shoes for their sore feet.
“I like to get out, sure,” Nesryn replied. She sipped from her coffee cup. “We have more than just a stoplight here, John.” The coffee was good. Better than she remembered. She had a Keurig at home but she’d been neglecting it lately. “There’s a marina and the best food truck,” Nesryn began, trying to think, “we have a bowling alley here, and a lot of shadowy places.” Her eyes crept up. She took another sip from her cup.
“I like it here, a lot.”
“Shadowy places? Now you’ve caught my attention.” John rested his chin in his palm and gazed at the brunette who had grown a hair defensive of her home; he had watched her spine straighten as she listed its charms. “Tell me about those,” he suggested. The bowling alley he could do without, but he would have to be on the lookout for the elusive stoplight on his way out of town.
She took another sip. “Can you describe shadows?” Nesryn shrugged. “They’re cloudy, dark, sort of a silhouette of the night. Sometimes in the sun you can see yours…” Peter Pan didn’t have to worry here, there were places to spot yourself from a mile away, but if you knew where to look in town you could find the darker spots where you could stand and observe. “If you’re really curious, the trailer park is a good place to chase shadows.” She lifted her hands, fingers moving like spider legs as if to be creepy. “But the people here are special.”
John paused, the cup halfway to his mouth, its rich contents wobbling against the walls. “Are you suggesting I lurk in the trailer park?” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s not really my style but I could do with a new hobby. I shall tell them all, ‘Nesryn sent me.’” He drank to the bottom, picked up the pot, and poured himself more.
He offered to top hers off.
Nesryn shook her head. “I don’t want you lurking anywhere. You just asked for shadows. That place has the best ones.” She couldn’t help but bite back a laugh though. He was funny. “So you prefer neon, that works. More places to hide there.” A casual shrug. “I like Vegas. It has some cool stuff.”
A senior citizen in the booth three down and on the left piped up to no one, “I once met a showgirl in Vegas.” The remark would cause Nesryn to lift her head and she bit back a laugh, looking at John with wide, amused eyes. “I bet she was special,” Nesryn called out. The elderly gentleman smiled to himself and nodded.
John was tempted to ask if her name was Lola, but he bit back the remark. It might be taken as a slight towards the wrinkled old gent, who was young enough to be the vampire’s great-great-grandson. “Ah!” John slapped a palm on the table. “The one thing I haven’t accomplished since arriving. I have never met a showgirl. Did you know Bally’s is the only place left to see them perform? Oblige us with a story,” he called across to his fellow diner, ignoring the flare of headache that accompanied it. “Or better still, tell us your favorite thing about her.”
Nesryn giggled. She may have also snorted a laugh.
“It was a long time ago,” the old man indulged. He looked as if he’d fallen in love. “I was a young man, younger than you.” A gnarled finger would point. “Her name was Dorothy. Trust me, young lad, those exercises she did for performing paid off big. I hit the jackpot that night.”
The werewolf cupped a hand over her mouth and her eyes widened.
“She had the best hair,” the old timer recalled, sighing softly. Then he went back to his eggs. His wife stared at him blankly.
John’s mouth opened. It closed again, perhaps wisely. He whispered to Nesryn, “I’ve heard that falls and poisoning are leading causes of accidental death in the home. How do you think she’ll do it? A wet floor outside the bathtub? A mixup with his medication?” The hazel-eyed vampire let his eyes drift as he pretended to weigh the woman’s options for homicide.
Another snort of laughter. Nesryn looked down at her cup of coffee and giggled. “She is so mad,” she mouthed, whispering. Nesryn’s eyes darted to the older woman and then back to John. “I hope she forgives him but if not then…well…” strange things were known to happen here.
Nesryn picked up her cup of coffee and took a sip.
“Then we neither saw them nor had this conversation,” he finished. John leaned back against the vinyl booth. His fingers located the sweetener packet again and shook it, settling the grains into a bottom corner. The vampire cast a look about the place, which might have been bought out by the Denny’s franchise but retained the decor of a mom and pop franchise, such as the murals of riverboats and a life-size carving of an indiginous person. It had character, albeit a strange one. “Do you like working here? By that I mean, is there something about this job that feeds your soul, or is there something else on the horizon?”
“I like it,” Nesryn replied after swallowing her sip of coffee. “It’s not a difficult job, I like the people.” She didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life was the lines between the writing. Once upon a time she had a trajectory and goals, then she left home and came here. “I don’t know if it feeds my soul, exactly, but it’s not awful.” For a retail gig it was on the upper end of things. She wasn’t sure what else out there would be perfect. Maybe she was afraid of the risk of getting unsettled and finding her bearings again.
“There is a comfort in that. Think of all the people who are miserable every day of their lives! When I was h— Mm.” John raised a finger, cajoling himself. “Nearly lost my way there.” He smiled and began again. “When I was young, let’s say, I became a professor. I still am, and it is a fine way of making money. Not a lot! But some. I can do the work and I don't mind it, but I found my passion when I began to write for myself. It was electrifying, to have one’s work read, to have it celebrated or ridiculed, it hardly mattered to me as long as I was doing it. Failure was an acceptable risk because the process was what lit the inner candle.” He looked beyond Nesryn at the dim but cozy diner. “I’ve been fortunate.”
She edged to the line of her seat as he spoke. Her hand went beneath her chin as she listened. Nesryn nodded. “That’s so great. Empowering.” Having your work pulled apart and analyzed like a dissection of a cadaver could be thrilling. “You’re a professor? Where do you teach? Do you have tenure somewhere? Of course you do.” Of course he did. Even soaked in enough alcohol to cause a fire, he spoke with an air of sophistication.
“I teach at UNLV,” John said. “English Literature of the Victorian Era, the Romantic Poets, and Advanced Creative Writing. I’ve had tenure before, but longevity in a single place is tricky for me. It can take six years in a tenure-track position before you’re up for it, and then there’s the scrutiny of your credentials and all the backbiting. Then a few years go by and your colleagues begin to notice... you’re not graying.” He smiled softly. “It’s better for me to be an adjunct instructor or an assistant professor. I hardly need health insurance.”
He looked at the propping of her chin. “If I had been more aware of my surroundings at Lucky’s, what would I have noticed about you? Other than your face, which it appears I did make note of.”
As John described his accomplishments, Nesryn went laser focus. She listened to every word of description, nodding. Quite tenured, she knew. Her hand would come out from beneath her chin as she sat up, and back. “Did you?” A sly remark. She couldn’t help but smile. And then she offered a shrug of her shoulders casually. “I don’t know.” Nesryn looked around at all of the novelty stuff, the Denny’s relics. Then her eyes fixed on John again. “Maybe the way I smell.” She pegged him for a non-human, a vampire and she was certain he would be able to formulate the same thing for her. Warm, rich earth, trees, the night sky filled with the face of the moon. “Or maybe I just smell like bacon. It’s hard to get that out of your clothes.” She resisted the urge to lift up the hem of her shirt and smell it for confirmation.
“Oh, I know you’re a shapeshifter,” he said. “I was hoping for something more revealing. Were you working a second job because you’re saving up? Spending the holiday alone or with friends? Were you happy or pissed off? Anything beyond what a waitress tells people about herself when she’s being polite.” John finished his coffee. In this corner of the diner, away from the sun, he felt much better and he could ignore the worst of his hangover. The drive home would be another matter entirely.
“Yes, and no,” she replied to the first question. Saving in the context of having something to get by, but not for anything in particular. “Alone.” Nesryn remarked next. That stung a little bit. She had friends, people she loved and cared for. If there was a festive activity in Searchlight or Vegas hosted by her friends she would go if invited, otherwise she would text her sister. “And I don’t really know.” Her eyes travelled to his cup, noticing it was empty. “Would you like more coffee?”
Hmm. John sensed he had dampened her mood, and there was little Nesryn was interested in sharing. He was a stranger, after all, and a vampire, and his prying was interrupting her job. “Ah,” he peered into the mug. “No.” John gave her a smile. “This is fine. But I should hit the road before the sun gets any higher. You know, I can’t imagine a world in which someone like you would spend any holiday alone. Not even Thanksgiving, which I’ve always thought was overrated, but I would, wouldn’t I? Being English and all.”
John took a wallet from his pants pocket and placed enough cash for the coffee beside Nesryn, then a sizable tip as subtly as he could manage under the creamer dish. “Take care.”