(mary) francine goldstein (francen) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-04-07 11:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | byron kettleburn, mary francine goldstein |
WHO: Byron Kettleburn and Francine Goldstein
WHAT: Two nemeses cross paths and definitely get along
WHEN: April 7
WHERE: Starbeaks
Byron usually made his own coffee at home, but his machine had broken over the weekend and after two days without coffee, he’d decided he couldn’t survive another day without it. So he’d stood in the queue for an absurd amount of time to purchase himself a cup of mediocre coffee. And with that finally completed, he turned to find a seat. They were all taken, except for one. And when Byron realized who he’d have to share the table with, he let out an audible groan. Francine noticed Byron too late to do something to indicate that the empty chair at her table was in fact taken. If she'd looked up a minute earlier, or even twenty seconds earlier, she could've spread her things out and pretended whoever was occupying the seat was just outside for a moment. She could've spilled something on the chair. She could've done anything, but now she couldn't throw something together that would've been believable. And that means she would have to share a table with her nemesis. Scone in one hand, coffee in the other, Byron approached the edge of her table. “I’m a fast eater,” he said and collapsed into the seat across from her. “I also prefer to do it in silence.” The look on her face (a mix between disgust and horror) said all that needed to be said about Byron infringing on her space, but in case he didn't know how to read the intricacies of her expressions, Francine said, "I prefer to be alone and I feel a little sick today —" (she didn't), "so I can't account for what might happen." Byron raised his eyebrows at her, but he made good on his promise to eat quickly and took a large bite out of his scone. Not only was he sticking to his word (albeit somewhat passive aggressively), but it gave him the unintentional benefit of having to wait long enough to chew and swallow a dry bit of scone before he could speak again. He got to consider his words. That should’ve meant he had time to bite back a sarcastic response and acted like an adult and said something empathetic. But instead, he used it to hone his sarcastic response into the cleverest version of itself he could think up: “How do you think I feel? I’m trying to eat, here.” Thankfully, Francine was a model of good, mature behavior. That was clear by the exaggerated roll of her eyes and grimace left on her face. "You're lucky that I even let you have this seat. But you just looked so stupid standing around, I had to take pity on you." “Please.” Byron snorted before ducking behind his coffee. “It’s not a coincidence the only empty seat in the place is the one next to you.” Her eyes narrowed. "I'll have you know that there was someone sitting here just before you took over." They had not. "People like my company." “I’m sure a few of them can tolerate it,” he said. “They must have developed an immunity to loud, outlandish theories and being overstimulated in general.” "Actually, they think I'm delightful. They always say so. And please don't talk about any kind of stimulation in front of me," Francine warned, a pained tone evident in her voice. "I know your son." “Congratulations! I’m the sperm donor half responsible for him,” he said with a smug grin before stuffing another bite of scone in his mouth. He didn’t wait to finish chewing entirely before he added, “I wouldn’t normally bring it up, but since you mentioned it and all.” She wondered, for a not inconsiderable amount of time, whether she could knock the scone out of his hand without it causing a scene. Surely everyone would understand. He was practically talking with his mouth full now! With a look of disgust, she dropped the idea, but said, "I never used those words. That was your terrible mind." “You should take it from a seasoned journalist,” he said, placing a hand on his chest. “People like it when the subject jumps off the page at them. You can only do that with vivid writing. Shouting at the top of your lungs will only get you so far.” Francine's scoff wasn't even deliberately loud — it was just loud, because she was suddenly so offended. "Like I'd ever take advice about writing from a Prophet HACK." “Am I supposed to take that seriously?” But his scoff back at her suggested that maybe he did, a little. “You basically blog gossip and conspiracy theories.” "I would never stake my reputation on lies." She straightened her back as she got more annoyed by his insults. "All of my work is based on painstaking research and truth. Which is a lot more than I can for you." Even if it had been mocking in nature, humor left his expression. He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said coolly. “On your blog or in person.” "Out of the two of us," Francine gestured between the two of them to emphasize the difference there. "I'm the only one who's shown they actually care about what's really happening in the world. And I'm the only one using my platform to help people!" Byron’s jaw tightened for a brief moment. But it passed quickly and he took another sip of his coffee. “So you’re a saint, I suppose,” he said and flicked a scone crumb across the table at her. “Saint Mary.” Smugly, she corrected him. "It's Saint Francine, actually. I'm not surprised because you're just too used to being wrong all the time." “Pretty sure you’re talking about Saint Mary Francis,” Byron said, unperturbed. “I don’t have time to memorize the name of every saint. I’ve got too much to do,” she said, slamming a hand onto the table for no reason at all. “Maybe you’re just not productive with your time.” He shrugged. “It only took me two seconds to make her up.” Francine rolled her eyes, mostly to pretend that it didn't bother her, even though it absolutely did. "Whatever. You're the one who's lying about saints." “I’m not the one lying about being one,” he said and made a face at her before he took another bite of his scone. "I was obviously using it as an expression." Francine crossed her arms and kicked the leg of his chair. "Sorry," she said very unapologetically. "That was an accident." It was not. “I’m sure,” he said, rolling his eyes. He reaching for a napkin to wipe the coffee off his hand that had sloshed over the side of his cup when his chair had jerked beneath him. “Not very saintly.” "Even saints are prone to accidents. They're saintly, not perfect," Francine retorted, her leg kicking his chair again. "I guess I'm just restless today!" “The word I’d use is immature,” he said and kicked back beneath the table, causing her chair to skid against the floor when he pushed it. “Also outmatched.” Despite the fact that she had started this whole thing, this was all Byron's fault. "Oh, because I'm a girl, I'm outmatched?" She'd show him. Once she got her chair back to where it was, she pushed the table towards him with a hard shove. “No,” he said, his brows knitting together as he caught the table with his hands. “You’re outmatched because you’re half my size with less than half my cleverness.” "What's it like to be so delusional?" She pushed the table again. “What’s it like to be so annoying?” He parroted her voice and pushed the table back at her, almost knocking both their drinks over. Francine barely noticed the precariousness of their drinks, so intent on not letting Byron win this fight. "I don't know, you'll have to tell me! It'd be the only time anyone would ever look forward to listening to you." “That’s more times than I’ve ever wanted to listen to you,” Byron snapped back at her, bracing himself against the table in case she tried to push it again. Francine laughed sharply. "Well, that's because you're clearly threatened by me. Of course you'd just close your mind to superior talent." To cap off her point, she did push the table again, but she quickly backed off, grabbed his cup of coffee, and brandished it in warning. "If you want this back, you should just agree with me." “I can get another coffee,” he said, eyes narrowed on her. But from the corner of his eye, he could see the queue and he wasn’t thrilled at the thought of having to stand in it all over again. “You’re the opposite of threatening, Francine. And probably the opposite of talented, too.” There was very little time between making the decision and actually carrying it out. All in all, maybe a second passed before Francine tossed his coffee at him. Her aim was perfect, as it should've been, because this wasn't the first time she'd not only thought about throwing something at him, but also thrown a drink at someone. It was just an added bonus that it was Byron. "I'm the epitome of talent," she hissed angrily, before getting up from her chair and picking up her things as quickly as possible. Loudly, she called out to a barista who was making his way over. "I'm sorry about that. He really shouldn't be allowed out in public!" Without a look back (as required by all dramatic exits), Francine swept past the barista and tried to keep the spring out of her step. She did, however, allow herself to smile as she left the shop. She also left a damp Byron behind, grabbing napkins in an attempt to soak some of the coffee out of his shirt. What didn’t help was the silence that fell over the shop after the commotion. Byron felt his cheeks growing red under too many peoples’ eyes and abandoned the thought of drying himself off. Instead, he gathered his things and barely managed a nod at the barista before he shouldered his way out the door. It wasn’t until he was halfway back to the Prophet that he remembered with a sigh, he’d left the rest of his scone behind. |