francisco javier es una (pesadilla) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-07-28 01:38:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | eric northman, theon greyjoy |
Who: Lin Alesi & Dante Kessler
What: Talking civilly, of course.
Where: A diner off the Strip
When: The day after the memories plot
Warnings: Some swears are in here.
The red plastic seat was uncomfortable, Lin decided, frowning and shifting on it. His left hand was curled around a cooling mug of coffee, his right lying on the table in front of him, fiddling with the remains of a paper napkin. He’d already torn several strips off of it, though he was unaware of it. Indeed, the waitress had come by twice, steaming coffee pot in hand, but upon seeing the distant look and glassy eyes, and then the second time, the dark-haired boy with his head bowed low to the table, she decided she’d just swing by later.
The boy sat as if in a daze, eyes half-lidded. It was clear from looking at him that he was somewhere far away from the little diner off the Strip, with its fading, autographed photos of outdated celebrities covering every square inch of its walls. But wherever he was - it didn’t seem the place anyone would want to go to. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, trying to tease apart what had happened over the last few days. Of course, the better part of yesterday had been spent trying to do the same damn thing, yet here he was. At least today he’d been able to leave the condo. And at least he’d managed to seat himself at the booth in the back and hadn’t yet begun to cry inconsolably into his cup of coffee. Softly sobbing in public was not on his list of things to do today.
Yesterday had seen enough tears, thank you - it had been an unending barrage of emotional sucker punches. He hadn’t been able to go more than fifteen minutes without finding himself wracked with guilt or sadness or pity or any other of the abominable emotions you don’t really want to have. His eyes were still puffy from the crying and his condo was a mess. He had called in sick to work - because he was. He was sick. Psychologically, emotionally. He was terminally fucking ill. It was all he could do to crawl out from his blankets today and into his gray t-shirt and pants, and drag himself to the diner. It had taken nearly every ounce of the effort he possessed.
The waitress passed by again and this time Lin looked up. It was obvious to her that he was hanging by a very, very, very fragile thread. She didn’t want to set him off, so she simply topped off his coffee and high-tailed it back behind the counter. Then the little bell at the front door announced the entrance of some dapper-looking fuck and Lin squinted angrily from his poorly lit booth. There was something about the cut of the man that drew his attention. He knew who it was, though he hadn’t yet figured it out.
Then the memory hit him - not like it had two days ago, when it had completely washed over him, drowning him, suffocating him. This time it felt more like a blow to the stomach. The briefcase. The phone call. Aubrey. Lin’s heart began pounding in his chest as he slid out from the seat. His eyes narrowed on the man’s face, taking in the cut of his jaw. His dark hair. His age. He was old. Of fucking course he was old.
Unfortunately for Lin, though he crossed the diner to confront the man, he hadn’t quite had time to formulate what he was going to say, and by the time he arrived, he just sort of opened and closed his mouth, before pointing an accusatory finger. “You!”