06 / 04 / 10 - Andrew, Bobby, Jean-Paul, Lance, Tom, Xen
=XF= Cafeteria - First Floor - Titan Enterprises
This isn't a large cafeteria by any means, but it's fully functional, with a variety of food options and seating for fifty or so souls. Along the walls and in the center of the black-and-white tiled room, chairs surround tables, making them easily configurable for just about any size group. The back wall is taken up by the traditional cafeteria line, where a small selection of food is prepared varyingly every day. A chalkboard near the front of the line lists the day's entree, pasta, vegetables, and soups, while an open refrigerator display at the end offers pre-made sandwiches, salads, and drinks to compliment the soda fountain. Although the pickings are a bit slim - especially when it comes to desserts - the two women who cook for the employees of Titan Enterprises know their stuff, and it is without fail delicious.
"On top of spaghetti....!" Yes, there really is someone singing in the cafeteria. While the voice isn't bad, the delivery really needs help. Or maybe Bobby just needs help in general. Despite having cleared half of his personal mountain, there is still enough on his plate that the song is appropriate. Back in the line there are other italianish stuff, and a salad or two. And breadsticks. Fresh, hot, buttered breadsticks sprinkled with paramsan cheese and giving off a come hither aroma.
Screw the pre-made Italian stuff. Xen has bypassed the tempting buffet of pasta givings, and is off at the make-your-own panini station, piling on the ham, cheese, herbs, and other goodies. And then he puts in the hot panini press and lets it cook for a minute before sliding it to his plate to join the parmesan cheese breadsticks. (Okay, so he didn't escape ALL of the pre-made stuff.) Naturally, he has another plate of salad, and then grabs a water before heading over to the usual all-Agents table, taking a seat.
A very serious amount of self-control has limited Jean-Paul's breadsticky acquisition. His tray is heavy on the salad, medium on the pasta, with plenty in the way of meatballs to pile on top. He slides into place about the same time as Xen, although on the other side of the table. He gives those present a brief nod and unloads milk first to open it and take a sip. Then he says, "I'll give you a tip if you /stop/ singing."
Xen says, "Seconded," comes from the pilot, right before he picks up the still hot sandwich and takes a bite.""
Lance slides himself through the food line and snags himself a full plate full of spaghetti with excessive sause and four breadsticks, one on each end of the plate, boxing the pasta in. Obnoxious? Yes. Still, the loudness of his plate aside, he's rather quiet as he takes a place near the end of the magic table.
"Seconded," comes from the pilot, right before he picks up the still hot sandwich and takes a bite.
Tom is already seated at the table because I don't want to pose going through the line, a few spaces down from Bobby, slowly twirling pasta around the tines of his fork with his head propped on the palm of his hand, elbow crooked against the table's surface. He looks ... bemused.
Andrew eats a breadstick as he goes through the line, before he even gets to a table. Bad Andrew. By the time he needs both hands for his tray, rather than one one to slide it along and pick things up, the end of the breadstick is short enough he just holds it in his teeth as he searches for a table. Sociability draws him in to sit with the others. Once he's set the tray down and finished his bread, he makes his greetings. He huffs a laugh at the singing.
"...I lost my poor meatball..." Bobby drones on obnoxiously, waving his breadstick like a conductors baton. "WHEN SOMEBODY SNEEZED." That is directed straight at Jean-Paul.
Jean-Paul shifts, lifting his hips to dig out his wallet and flip it open. As Bobby drones on and lifts his voice, he flips through to find the first bill -- a five. He lifts it, pinched between his fingers, and proffers it at Bobby. He holds it, waiting for silence.
"I think he might not want a tip," Tom says, slowly lifting wound noodles to his mouth. Biting pasta from the fork, he waves it generally in greeting as he chews. Or maybe just at Lance. Who knows.
Lance grabs the northern breadstick first and bites off the end, waggling the rest at Tom in a yo. He slides a look over at Bobby and starts with his usual, "So who the hell's that. Didn't know we hired wannabe stand-ups."
Xen tips his head to the others as they join the table, or as he greets them, mouth full of sandwich as he chews. He eyes the five in Jean-Paul's hand, then Bobby with a slight smirk.
"In the shorts or it doesn't count. First rule of the club." Bobby doesn't look particular inclined to make access easy. He leans back in his chair and flops heavy shoes up on the table as he laces his fingers behind his head.
"It rolled out the door..." Andrew appends, sotto vocce, and surprisingly in tune. He starts on his second breadstick before touching his pasta, because obviously one must eat bread until one is too full for the entree. He coughs at Bobby's next comment, and his singing ceases resoundingly. He has no need of such tips.
"Lance Alvers, Bobby Drake," Tom says. He gives Bobby a look particularly askance. "Man, we /eat/ off there."
Jean-Paul's eyes flick upwards toward the ceiling and he says, "I really wish Isabel were her--." He doesn't quite finish the word. He stares at Bobby's feet.
"Bobby Drake." Lance takes another bite off the end. "In the shorts? What?"
"They -- In the /flesh/-- wipe it down at night. With disinfectant. I know. I've seen them," Bobby assure them blithely.
Xen glances sideways at Andrew, "Do you really need to encourage him, Swifte?" There's a mildly amused tone that shades his voice, despite the words. And then the feet come up, which means he slides his tray, and foot, back. Who knows where those feet have been. "They might need to break out the bleach tonight."
"Makes me nostalgic for home. Quick, someone annouce that as of his meal, they're suddenly a vegetarian." Andrew edges his tray closer to himself, but otherwise don't bother about feet too much.
Jean-Paul's tray slides away from Bobby, too. So does he. He brings his arm up to rest as a barrier against feet, and starts on his salad. "You've lived too long with children."
"I have no idea what this guy's saying," since Lance is back to ignoring that people have names and dossiers, "but I'm guessin' it's dirty. Right? It's dirty?"
"He's putting his feet where the food goes and trying to get people to put their hands down his pants," Tom translates for Lance's benefit.
"Which you don't normally see outside of--" Xen breaks off his sentence suddenly, as if he's suddenly aware of just how he was going to end that sentence. He covers it with a cough and clearing of his throat, and then takes a bite of his sandwich. A BIG bite. Nothing to see here. Move along.
When Xen breaks off, Jean-Paul arches an eyebrow in his direction between bites of salad.
Bobby scrubs at a patch of stubble and looks ceilingwards. "Yeah, they do kind of teach you what is worth being uptight about." He flicks a glance at Tom for his comment and smothers a laugh. He does put his feet down though, and pushes his tray away.
"Decor's kind of lacking for a strip club," Andrew says, looking up and around and then twirls up a forkfull of pasta. "Not enough half-naked chicks either. They should do something about that."
Lance gives Tom a long look, then transfers that stare to Bobby. "That's purty gay," he informs him. "For the table."
Xen's eyes slide over towards Swifte, totaly ignoring Jean-Paul's raised eyebrows. He finishes the bite of sandwich before replying, "Maybe you're looking in the wrong place, Swifte." There's a half cough, half laugh at Lance's commentary, though it's cut off with a half-strangled sound. Jesus, this has GOT to be a good sandwich. He eats another bite. Maybe he's trying to minimize his time at the cool kids' table.
"I don't think half-naked chicks are appropriate in the workplace," Tom grumbles as he scrubs his hand across his face. He stabs a meatball with his fork.
Gaze turning toward Lance in a long, cool appraisal, Jean-Paul eats more salad. He is scant with the words today.
"What, I should check out the women's locker room?" Andrew banters back to Xen. "I'm off duty, I don't know about you," he tells Tom. "Anybody doing anything resembling something exciting tonight?"
"I think they're always appropriate," Bobby retorts, picking up his breadstick and stuffing the end in his mouth like a cigar before picking up the tray as well. "See ya," he mumbles around the stick and flashing a grin.
Lance returns Jean-Paul's appraisal with an aggressively high-shouldered shrug as he snatches another bite of breadstick and sends a suspicious glance after Bobby for farewell. No comment further yet.
Tom eats his meatball.
Eyes narrowing, Jean-Paul holds the look until Lance glances away, and then he returns his attention to his food. A further mouthful of salad follows, eaten slowly. He volunteers no exciting plans.
"I think," Tom says, once he swallows, with the flicker of a glance after Bobby's departure, "that this right here is my exciting GED party. I hope you guys are honored to attend."
"Apparently I have all day plans tomorrow. So, probably not. Besides, I think I fulfilled the quota of exciting last night," Xen offers, willing to add to casual conversation. He then looks over at Tom's announcement with slight surprise, "No shit. Congratulations, Tom."
"I am," Jean-Paul assures, glancing over at Tom. He pulls a few other words out, echoing Xen: "Congratulations." Setting his fork down, he picks up a breadstick to break it and take a bite. Xen gets a mildly curious glance.
Andrew tosses Tom a surprised grin. "I'm sure we can do better than /this/. Congratulations, yeah!" He watches Bobby go, but his attention returns quickly.
"Is it," and Lance's attention returns to breadsticks and table, "a /pre/-GED or you've already made it?"
Waving his fork around vaguely, Tom lowers it to twine more noodles around. "Technically we don't find out if I passed for a few weeks, but I'm going to assume I did," he says. "So. Party time." He eats spun-up noodles decisively. He doesn't sound very partyish about it, does he?
"Won't you feel ridiculous if you failed." Jean-Paul pushes a few veggies around, then stacks them neatly to stab.
"Please. I'm sure you passed without a doubt," Xen says in a show of solidarity. His sandwich is set down in favor of a breadstick, which is taken, broken and eaten.
"I could pass it. So you can," Lance says with a dismissal of his own.
"I don't think ridiculous is the word I'd use," Tom says dryly, setting his fork down beside his plate to pick up the cooled half a breadstick he has left.
Andrew raises his eyebrows at Jean-Paul. "Come on, like you really believe he would have, given his work ethic," he echoes Xen. He chases a meatball around before stabbing it up definitively. "Do you want a better party?" he asks Tom directly.
"We could go... bowling." Xen makes a 'hrm' sound as a thought hits him, going quiet as he eyes Tom askance in anticipation of a response in the negative, finishing the breadstick in silence.
Jean-Paul gives Andrew a particularly sort of exasperated, 'You're dumb,' glance and looks back over at Tom. "What word would you use?" he asks instead of addressing the others.
"Don't think we need to even be thinkin' about failure. It ain't possible," Lance doggeds.
"I'm pretty sure I'll get one whether I want one or not." Tom's mouth curves in a slight smile, pad of his thumb scrubbed across the arch of one thick, dark eyebrow. "Just have to wait for Weiss to get home." He gives Xen a skeptical glance, and then adds, "/Pissed/," with the arch of both eyebrows in Jean-Paul's direction.
Lips twitching in a very /slight/, very /dry/ smile, Jean-Paul acknowledges Tom's answer with the tip of his head.
At the skeptical glance from Tom, Xen merely shrugs his shoulders in an 'I don't know' kind of shrug. It's very expressive. Once more, he returns to his sandwich to take another bite of panini goodness.
Lance finishes breadstick the first, then starts the second. "Who's Weiss again?"
"You don't seem the type for the usual get drunk and have a bar fight of XF style." Andrew says, nodding to give Xen some credit for his suggestion. "Isabel," he contributes for Lance. "Don't hit on her if you like your balls to remain where they are."
"You met her," Tom tells Lance. He gives Andrew a fairly dour look for this descriptor.
At that comment from Andrew, Xen's eyebrows arch high onto his forehead. 'Really? You know from experience?', they say. He shakes his head slightly, but doesn't contribute any advice of his own about Isabel. It would be limited advice, anyway.
Finishing his salad -- not talking gives you a lot more time to eat! -- Jean-Paul pulls the spaghetti over to start on that, meatball first. "I guess she did mention something about you and drinking," he says to Tom.
"Isa-- right. We gotta get down a system 'bout how we call people." Lance turns his attention back over to Xen. "Although, dunno. Folks call you Brandt?"
Andrew shakes his head to Xen's eyebrow-question. "At least we're not throwing codenames in the mix at the moment," he tells Lance. He brings his knife into play to actually be neat about a little bisecting of meatballs and cutting of noodles, and then goes back to fork alone since that's faster.
"What did she say?" Tom asks Jean-Paul warily, dark brows arching. "--Pretty much everybody calls me Tom, I think. Sometimes there are nicknames."
"Xen, typically." Pronounced 'Zen'. "Though I really don't care. Brandt works just as well. I tend to use first or last names, depending." The helicopter pilot shrugs slightly, looking back at Lance and meeting that gaze. "If someone's got a preference, I try to stick to it."
"Right." Lance scarfs down his breadstick before adding, "Suppose I'll be working under you in flight in a bit. Nice to re-meet you or sommat. I jus' got a bad memory for names."
Jean-Paul tips a few fingers and does not really fill Tom in. He just smiles, bland to that wariness. He eats. Silently. He is not at his most social.
"I'm used to last names when I don't know people really socially, from my security guard days," Andrew puts in. His attention wanders to Jean-Paul but then slides away again at the non-answer.
"Good to have you back," is Xen's response to Lance's re-greeting. He glances over at Andrew, grinning wryly, "We used last names all the time in Alaska, 'less we were flying. It's usually more comfortable for me to use them than first names. Unless it's one that doesn't roll off the tongue. Or takes a full sentence to say."
Tom finishes off his breadstick and pauses in his eating with noodles and meat lingering on his plate, looking up and down the table with a faint frown pulling at his expression.
"S'pose have gone off of Alvers myself." With that, it seems, Lance's semi-friendliness is expended. He takes up his plate and moves to stand. "Think that's it for me," is rather telegraphed.
Glancing toward Lance, Jean-Paul lifts his chin in a cool, minimal gesture of acknowledgment, and then returns to the busy work of clearing his plate. He ... continues to add very little to the conversation. GOD WHAT A DRAG.
"Later, Lance," Tom says with a tip of his fork, not actually calling him Alvers despite the opportunity to do so here. He eats another meatball.
Xen tips his head in a nod to Lance as he gets up from the table. "Later," he says, though the name is excluded. Don't feel bad, Lance! And then he returns to his panini in an attempt to finish it.
Andrew nods to add his farewells to the rest, and then settles into eating in silence too. What a lively bunch!
Eventually, they all probably finish. Jean-Paul does. He nods, and makes his way off.
So honored to attend the fail dinner.