The island had done it again. Whether it was pure chance or benevolence none of them would ever know, but somehow, someway, the place had seen fit to give them all booze again
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Addison had been passing the doorway to go to the Clinic to get herself some tests to run and there it had been, beckoning and whispering to her like some kind of naughty little imp, as if shouting, 'See, Addison? Just like Joe's, come stuff your face in us'. She was stronger than any muffin.
The booze, on the other hand...well, no one said she was a saint. She'd gone back to change out of her labcoat and into a pair of jeans with a suitable top and she gave in to that siren song of the beers sitting over there on the table.
Adam leaned past the woman at the table to snag a glass and an open bottle of red. It had only been a couple of days, but, already, he was having fond thoughts of the bottle on the counter in the flat. And, according to Angela, it was only going to get worse.
"Excuse me," he said, with a smile, pouring himself a generous glass. "Apparently, you're where the queue starts."
Addison turned curiously, biting back a remark about the 'queue', because that would be impolite and she was trying to be better about those things. Less bitchy-Montgomery, more happy-friendly. She stepped to the side. "I don't want to cause a pile-up," she added ruefully, noting the amount of wine. "Thirsty?"
"I'm sticking with beer," Addison said, knowing the dangers of switching all-too-well. "The wine is all yours, promise," she added, peering and seeing, ooh, red velvet cake.
"Addison," she greeted in turn, shifting to put her own bottle down to reach over and give him what was a confident hand-shake with a nod. She was getting better at this, at being a normal person with few insane tics. "The way this place is today, I think you might just get your wish. Everyone seems distracted by something shiny."
Repeating name was a trick they taught you. It made you seem interested, genuine, and it kept the name in your head. Which was important. You couldn't be effective in Adam's line of work if you kept forgetting names.
He tugged at the open colour of his shirt, revealing a double row of purple and green beads.
She looked at the beads and the beads looked back and she couldn't help the pained groan that came from deep down inside. "Those things are dangerous," she said seriously. "They make serious people do crazy things. I should know. They're like little alcohol in beady form."
"I was young, I was in New Orleans, and I had a mission," Addison said every word with slow and methodical control, her lips slowly lifting in a smile. "I don't think we're allowed to be blamed for things we did before we were twenty-one."
"I was at Cambridge when I was twenty one." Just because he never got caught, doesn't mean he wasn't up to anything. It just meant that he really was destined for his line of work.
"You can offer them, but I won't do anything for them," she said, setting her own terms there and then. "I was in pre-med, I just had time off is all," she lightly breezed that aside.
"It's a good thing I'm not the sort of man to ever ask a woman to do anything for beads, isn't it?" said Adam. "And at least you did something useful at University. My degree's in English."
"English," Addison echoed with one of her knowing smiles. "So you could sit around and tell me all the ways I've gone wrong in the world, not paying attention to writers and poets?" As far as she was concerned, surgery was life. Surgeries were air. Blood and the scalpel were her limbs.
"I could try," said Adam, who'd done his actual degree in Arabic, which at least had some practical applications, at least in the line of work he'd ended up in.
Addison had been passing the doorway to go to the Clinic to get herself some tests to run and there it had been, beckoning and whispering to her like some kind of naughty little imp, as if shouting, 'See, Addison? Just like Joe's, come stuff your face in us'. She was stronger than any muffin.
The booze, on the other hand...well, no one said she was a saint. She'd gone back to change out of her labcoat and into a pair of jeans with a suitable top and she gave in to that siren song of the beers sitting over there on the table.
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"Excuse me," he said, with a smile, pouring himself a generous glass. "Apparently, you're where the queue starts."
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"Jake."
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Repeating name was a trick they taught you. It made you seem interested, genuine, and it kept the name in your head. Which was important. You couldn't be effective in Adam's line of work if you kept forgetting names.
He tugged at the open colour of his shirt, revealing a double row of purple and green beads.
"Guilty as charged."
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He arched an eyebrow.
"Which begs the question of what you do for beads."
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"So I shouldn't try offering you any?"
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Why not, right?
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