A ficlet about nothing.
Sometimes you get a mental image and it just doesn't go away until you do something about it.
Title: Old Heroes Bar and Grill
Author: Lyn (backtothelight)
Rating: PG - very light cursing.
Author's Notes: One-shot. Crossover. Drawn from real life. I really went to this bar a long while back, and I'd give anything to find it again. In reality, it's called Peggy's, yet I never saw Peggy while I was there. There is no Kitt in this fic. Just Michael and an acquaintance. For timeline, this happens in the present.
---
Summer had a sweet smell in Florida. Magnolia and citrus blossoms, faint hints of honeysuckle over the humidity that eased as the sun slid below the horizon. He drove slow with the top down, lights on, smiling as he watched the road ahead of him stretch further. He was headed north for now. What was north? He wasn't sure yet, but one thing caught his attention. There on the side of the road was an orange-lit gravel parking lot around a concrete-block building. It wasn't the classiest place in the world, but as he pulled into a makeshift spot in front of the building, he smelled the mouth-watering aroma of greasy cheeseburgers, hot fries, and warm ketchup.
He pulled the top up and battened it down, even rolling up the windows before he locked the doors. Gone were the days when he could just park and walk off, not thinking twice about whether the doors were locked or the interior open. That was innocence he missed. All the same, he did leave the jacket in the car. Indoors, he wouldn't need it. The car was surrounded by a collection of motorcycles and pickup trucks, and somehow that made the place seem all the more comfortable.
Just as the exterior promised, the interior was slightly smoky. There were at least two pool tables that he could see, a bar, and a few 'booths' to one side. They were mostly old kitchen tables and chairs, and a few picnic tables that had gotten finagled through the door somehow. The crowd looked at him as the screen door jerked itself closed behind him, a noticeable whack in the midst of the jukebox contentedly playing old Eagles songs, and they seemed to approve. He realised with a smile that he was practically in their uniform. Boots, jeans, flannel with the sleeves rolled up. After a few nods of greeting, they went back to their food, their beers, and their pool games.
He took a place at the bar - one of two people seated there - and gave the 'tender a smile.
"Evenin'," the man told him, sliding a coaster into place in front of him. The top of the bar was already marked with rings from the sweat off the cups in the southern heat. "What can I get for ya?"
"I could smell those burgers from all the way outside. How about I get one of those - bacon and cheese? And a big order of fries."
"Bacon, cheese - tomato and lettuce?"
"And pickles. Tell ya what - make it a double."
"Beer?"
It was tempting. It was damned tempting, but he was going to keep driving tonight, and the last thing he needed was to weave from both booze and sleep. "How about some OJ? Still got a way to go tonight."
The tender raised his eyebrows at him but nodded all the same. "...Weird night. Arright, bacon double with the works and a mess of fries comin' up."
His own brows raised. Weird night? Huh. He looked around himself curiously, even as a tall orange juice was set down in front of him. Everybody else looked like a normal crowd - some of them singing along, most of them smoking or drinking, laughing and cutting a good round of pool or two. Most of the people who were eating either had burgers or hot wings and that was one taste he'd not quite developed. He liked meat on his chicken more than he liked having to drink blue cheese to be able to feel his tongue again. Then he glanced down the bar. Two or three stools down was a man that didn't quite seem like a regular. Something in the way he leaned against the bar. But he had a sizeable basket of fries in front of him, just like he himself hoped to have soon, as well as an empty wooden bowl that looked like it'd seen better days. And, tellingly, a glass half-full of orange juice. Weird night.
"Hey."
"Hu-- Oh. Hi." A smile was met with a smile - always a good sign.
"Passing through?"
"Oh, yeah. Not from around here."
"Me either."
"Figured you were one of the normal crowd, picking me out like that."
"Nah. I've just been noticing people all my life." He chuckled and took a drink out of his juice. "Tender noticed we've got a drink in common."
"Yeah, I see. I guess you're driving the rest of the night, too."
"Yep, north."
"South."
He smiled. "Keys?"
"Yep."
"Good place to be this time of year. Just came from there. Figured I might need to head to someplace a little less like Margaritaville."
"Why's that?"
"Getting too used to living slow."
Neither one of them, he realised then, were the youngest of men. He had grey in his own hair, though mostly at the temples. The man he was talking to was brown and grey all over, but looked about his age all the same. Hair, he told himself, was not the measure of a man. He didn't have a bald spot yet, and neither did this guy, and neither of them was trying to pull a William Shatner.
"And here I'm just starting to slow down," said the fellow stranger just as a basket of fries were slid into place in front of each of them.
"There we go, gents. Fries, here's ketchup, and here's your burger," the tender said.
"Looks good. And smells fantastic. Thanks." With a warm and grateful smile, he pressed the bun down a bit before picking up the thick sandwich to bite through. The meat was still hot and juicy enough to run down his chin. The cheese stuck delightfully to his teeth and he could taste the mayo, the mustard, and the ketchup on top of the tomato and lettuce, along with the tang of the pickle. The bacon was thick and crisp, peppered on the edges, and added the perfect heat to the stack. When he inhaled, smell and taste of hickory smoke washed over his palate. He knew then that this burger was possibly the best he'd ever had. Freeing one hand, he flipped open the cap on the squeeze bottle of ketchup and drizzled some over the fries, adding one from the basket into his mouth. That only made it more perfect.
"Mmf, God," he muttered just after managing to swallow. "A man could get fat off these."
"Good stuff, huh?" the stranger asked, amused at the display as he wiped at his chin.
"I'm tellin' ya," he said while reaching for a fry. "I think I'd marry this sandwich."
It got a laugh, and that made him feel even better. Great burger, perfect fries, sweet OJ, and good company - on the Florida coast on an August night. It was the best he'd felt in years. Behind him, people trickled in and out as the bar served its late-night patrons. Never was there anything like silence. Pool balls clacked against each other and clunked their way into the tables via the pockets. The jukebox went through Lynyrd Skynyrd, Grateful Dead, Aerosmith, Little Feat, and more while he ate, and he started to feel like he could tend bar or wait tables in a place like this for the rest of his life.
"Did you have one of these?" he asked the man down the bar.
"Nah. I'm not much on red meat."
"So you... stopped at a bar and grill?"
"Hey," the stranger stopped him. "I like fries. I really like fries," he playfully defended. "And what better place to get fries than a place like this?"
"Got me there," he laughed. "I've gotta remember where this place is. This burger is more than worth the drive."
"Hell of a thing isn't it?" The tone was half there, half wondering. "The places you don't expect to find. Great fries, great food - or a perfect view. Things that are... just enough out of the ordinary that you can't help but remember."
He nodded, more toward the burger than his company. "Seen quite a few of 'em in my time. I think I've driven every road Eisenhower ever had put down and then some."
"Interstates are overrated," the stranger agreed. "You lose a lot of good fishing holes if you just follow the interstate."
"Lot of other things, too."
"Then again, you can get into a lot of trouble if you don't follow the interstate."
He laughed. "Yeah. That, too. I don't know how much troubld I've gotten in in the past that I would'a stayed out of if I'd just stayed on the big roads."
"And then you get the charter planes..."
"Lucky enough I never ended up with that problem."
"Damn lucky."
"I had a partner that didn't like flying."
The stranger looked at him. "Cop?"
"Something like that. More of a private investigator. You?"
"Something like that," the man chuckled. "Just used to end up overseas a lot. Europe. Asia. South America, for all that's not really overseas."
"Overgulf, maybe?"
With a laugh and a nod, he smiled. "That works."
"Investigations?"
"Problem solving."
"No partner?"
The man shrugged. "Not really. Help from a few friends. Something like a partner now and then, but... never really the same person twice. At least not twice in a row. I'm better working alone. What about you? Your partner?"
"Oh. I..." He exhaled and ate a fry before answering. "I retired a while back. He's still working."
With a smirk, the stranger took a drink of his juice. "Retirees in Florida. Who would've thought."
"Hey, you're makin' me sound like one of the Golden Girls."
Both of them laughed. The burger was gone, only existing as a fond memory, and the fries soon joined it in the past. When the bartender came over and asked if he wanted a refill, he asked for a chocolate shake to go instead, and put a twenty in the tender's hand. "Keep the change," he said. The other man paid with a twenty as well he noticed as the bartender came back with his shake. He stood, stretching, a little surprised as his newfound friend did the same. Both left the bar into the orange-lit gravel parking lot, and while he headed to his car, the other headed toward a nicely-maintained motorcycle. "Nice bike," he complimented.
"Thanks," said the other, pulling on his helmet before pausing. "Never caught your name."
He blinked. "Damn, you're right." They met halfway, clasping hands. "M'name's Michael. Michael Knight."
"Michael. Well, good to meet you, and hope I run into you again sometime. I'm MacGyver. Most people just call me Mac."
The night had cooled off. The scents of flowers and trees weren't so heavy in the air anymore, but he still drove with the top down, one hand on the wheel, the other holding one of the thickest, richest chocolate milkshakes he'd ever tasted. His trip north only lasted until he saw the next motel with a vacancy sign. Florida was too nice a place to leave for a while yet. And, he thought with a smile, maybe the bar was hiring.
Title: Old Heroes Bar and Grill
Author: Lyn (backtothelight)
Rating: PG - very light cursing.
Author's Notes: One-shot. Crossover. Drawn from real life. I really went to this bar a long while back, and I'd give anything to find it again. In reality, it's called Peggy's, yet I never saw Peggy while I was there. There is no Kitt in this fic. Just Michael and an acquaintance. For timeline, this happens in the present.
---
Summer had a sweet smell in Florida. Magnolia and citrus blossoms, faint hints of honeysuckle over the humidity that eased as the sun slid below the horizon. He drove slow with the top down, lights on, smiling as he watched the road ahead of him stretch further. He was headed north for now. What was north? He wasn't sure yet, but one thing caught his attention. There on the side of the road was an orange-lit gravel parking lot around a concrete-block building. It wasn't the classiest place in the world, but as he pulled into a makeshift spot in front of the building, he smelled the mouth-watering aroma of greasy cheeseburgers, hot fries, and warm ketchup.
He pulled the top up and battened it down, even rolling up the windows before he locked the doors. Gone were the days when he could just park and walk off, not thinking twice about whether the doors were locked or the interior open. That was innocence he missed. All the same, he did leave the jacket in the car. Indoors, he wouldn't need it. The car was surrounded by a collection of motorcycles and pickup trucks, and somehow that made the place seem all the more comfortable.
Just as the exterior promised, the interior was slightly smoky. There were at least two pool tables that he could see, a bar, and a few 'booths' to one side. They were mostly old kitchen tables and chairs, and a few picnic tables that had gotten finagled through the door somehow. The crowd looked at him as the screen door jerked itself closed behind him, a noticeable whack in the midst of the jukebox contentedly playing old Eagles songs, and they seemed to approve. He realised with a smile that he was practically in their uniform. Boots, jeans, flannel with the sleeves rolled up. After a few nods of greeting, they went back to their food, their beers, and their pool games.
He took a place at the bar - one of two people seated there - and gave the 'tender a smile.
"Evenin'," the man told him, sliding a coaster into place in front of him. The top of the bar was already marked with rings from the sweat off the cups in the southern heat. "What can I get for ya?"
"I could smell those burgers from all the way outside. How about I get one of those - bacon and cheese? And a big order of fries."
"Bacon, cheese - tomato and lettuce?"
"And pickles. Tell ya what - make it a double."
"Beer?"
It was tempting. It was damned tempting, but he was going to keep driving tonight, and the last thing he needed was to weave from both booze and sleep. "How about some OJ? Still got a way to go tonight."
The tender raised his eyebrows at him but nodded all the same. "...Weird night. Arright, bacon double with the works and a mess of fries comin' up."
His own brows raised. Weird night? Huh. He looked around himself curiously, even as a tall orange juice was set down in front of him. Everybody else looked like a normal crowd - some of them singing along, most of them smoking or drinking, laughing and cutting a good round of pool or two. Most of the people who were eating either had burgers or hot wings and that was one taste he'd not quite developed. He liked meat on his chicken more than he liked having to drink blue cheese to be able to feel his tongue again. Then he glanced down the bar. Two or three stools down was a man that didn't quite seem like a regular. Something in the way he leaned against the bar. But he had a sizeable basket of fries in front of him, just like he himself hoped to have soon, as well as an empty wooden bowl that looked like it'd seen better days. And, tellingly, a glass half-full of orange juice. Weird night.
"Hey."
"Hu-- Oh. Hi." A smile was met with a smile - always a good sign.
"Passing through?"
"Oh, yeah. Not from around here."
"Me either."
"Figured you were one of the normal crowd, picking me out like that."
"Nah. I've just been noticing people all my life." He chuckled and took a drink out of his juice. "Tender noticed we've got a drink in common."
"Yeah, I see. I guess you're driving the rest of the night, too."
"Yep, north."
"South."
He smiled. "Keys?"
"Yep."
"Good place to be this time of year. Just came from there. Figured I might need to head to someplace a little less like Margaritaville."
"Why's that?"
"Getting too used to living slow."
Neither one of them, he realised then, were the youngest of men. He had grey in his own hair, though mostly at the temples. The man he was talking to was brown and grey all over, but looked about his age all the same. Hair, he told himself, was not the measure of a man. He didn't have a bald spot yet, and neither did this guy, and neither of them was trying to pull a William Shatner.
"And here I'm just starting to slow down," said the fellow stranger just as a basket of fries were slid into place in front of each of them.
"There we go, gents. Fries, here's ketchup, and here's your burger," the tender said.
"Looks good. And smells fantastic. Thanks." With a warm and grateful smile, he pressed the bun down a bit before picking up the thick sandwich to bite through. The meat was still hot and juicy enough to run down his chin. The cheese stuck delightfully to his teeth and he could taste the mayo, the mustard, and the ketchup on top of the tomato and lettuce, along with the tang of the pickle. The bacon was thick and crisp, peppered on the edges, and added the perfect heat to the stack. When he inhaled, smell and taste of hickory smoke washed over his palate. He knew then that this burger was possibly the best he'd ever had. Freeing one hand, he flipped open the cap on the squeeze bottle of ketchup and drizzled some over the fries, adding one from the basket into his mouth. That only made it more perfect.
"Mmf, God," he muttered just after managing to swallow. "A man could get fat off these."
"Good stuff, huh?" the stranger asked, amused at the display as he wiped at his chin.
"I'm tellin' ya," he said while reaching for a fry. "I think I'd marry this sandwich."
It got a laugh, and that made him feel even better. Great burger, perfect fries, sweet OJ, and good company - on the Florida coast on an August night. It was the best he'd felt in years. Behind him, people trickled in and out as the bar served its late-night patrons. Never was there anything like silence. Pool balls clacked against each other and clunked their way into the tables via the pockets. The jukebox went through Lynyrd Skynyrd, Grateful Dead, Aerosmith, Little Feat, and more while he ate, and he started to feel like he could tend bar or wait tables in a place like this for the rest of his life.
"Did you have one of these?" he asked the man down the bar.
"Nah. I'm not much on red meat."
"So you... stopped at a bar and grill?"
"Hey," the stranger stopped him. "I like fries. I really like fries," he playfully defended. "And what better place to get fries than a place like this?"
"Got me there," he laughed. "I've gotta remember where this place is. This burger is more than worth the drive."
"Hell of a thing isn't it?" The tone was half there, half wondering. "The places you don't expect to find. Great fries, great food - or a perfect view. Things that are... just enough out of the ordinary that you can't help but remember."
He nodded, more toward the burger than his company. "Seen quite a few of 'em in my time. I think I've driven every road Eisenhower ever had put down and then some."
"Interstates are overrated," the stranger agreed. "You lose a lot of good fishing holes if you just follow the interstate."
"Lot of other things, too."
"Then again, you can get into a lot of trouble if you don't follow the interstate."
He laughed. "Yeah. That, too. I don't know how much troubld I've gotten in in the past that I would'a stayed out of if I'd just stayed on the big roads."
"And then you get the charter planes..."
"Lucky enough I never ended up with that problem."
"Damn lucky."
"I had a partner that didn't like flying."
The stranger looked at him. "Cop?"
"Something like that. More of a private investigator. You?"
"Something like that," the man chuckled. "Just used to end up overseas a lot. Europe. Asia. South America, for all that's not really overseas."
"Overgulf, maybe?"
With a laugh and a nod, he smiled. "That works."
"Investigations?"
"Problem solving."
"No partner?"
The man shrugged. "Not really. Help from a few friends. Something like a partner now and then, but... never really the same person twice. At least not twice in a row. I'm better working alone. What about you? Your partner?"
"Oh. I..." He exhaled and ate a fry before answering. "I retired a while back. He's still working."
With a smirk, the stranger took a drink of his juice. "Retirees in Florida. Who would've thought."
"Hey, you're makin' me sound like one of the Golden Girls."
Both of them laughed. The burger was gone, only existing as a fond memory, and the fries soon joined it in the past. When the bartender came over and asked if he wanted a refill, he asked for a chocolate shake to go instead, and put a twenty in the tender's hand. "Keep the change," he said. The other man paid with a twenty as well he noticed as the bartender came back with his shake. He stood, stretching, a little surprised as his newfound friend did the same. Both left the bar into the orange-lit gravel parking lot, and while he headed to his car, the other headed toward a nicely-maintained motorcycle. "Nice bike," he complimented.
"Thanks," said the other, pulling on his helmet before pausing. "Never caught your name."
He blinked. "Damn, you're right." They met halfway, clasping hands. "M'name's Michael. Michael Knight."
"Michael. Well, good to meet you, and hope I run into you again sometime. I'm MacGyver. Most people just call me Mac."
The night had cooled off. The scents of flowers and trees weren't so heavy in the air anymore, but he still drove with the top down, one hand on the wheel, the other holding one of the thickest, richest chocolate milkshakes he'd ever tasted. His trip north only lasted until he saw the next motel with a vacancy sign. Florida was too nice a place to leave for a while yet. And, he thought with a smile, maybe the bar was hiring.