TS: Bob and Andy in Chicago [MCR, FOB]
Bob and Andy in Chicago
~Rough out of my writing journal. [updated 1-14-12; still rough, though.]
Master post is located here.
~~~~
Green Day is on the radio, and Andy’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, absently feeling his way through the beat as he watches the diner. It stopped raining hours ago, but the clouds haven’t lifted - the digital clock on his dashboard say it’s around six, but it’s dark enough out there for midnight. he windows are fogging up at the edges. He can’t get the heater in the car to work, and he’s feeling too stubborn to adjust the ambient temperature. The cold keeps him sharp, or at least focused.
He sees the flash of familiar blonde hair and turns off the radio.
The diner’s warm and bright, bustling with sound. As he slips in the door, Andy makes sure to stay out of Bob’s blind spot, pulling the door closed with a definite thump. He sees a smile twitch on Bob’s mouth before he turns, to nod at Andy. Andy always forgets how much there is to Bob - yeah, he’s taller than Andy, but not by much. He’s solidly built, but not really physically *big*. It’s not his personality either - Bob’s a pretty quiet dude. It’s his spirit - Bob Bryar is one of the most self-contained, self-aware Fianin Andy’s ever met and that resonates through his threads, and through the threads he touches.
[They look at each other, fidget with the silverware.] Bob orders a burger, rare, and a coke. Andy orders black coffee and home fries. Something tinny with a Latin beat gusts out every time the kitchen door swings open. Bob scowls at the noise and rubs at his forearm. [When the food arrives, they eat without saying much. Bob finished first, pushes the plate away and looks at Andy.]
"I need some information.”
“That’s what you said on the phone.”
“Yeah,” Bob says. “I ran into… something on tour and I…” he frowns and tugs at his hoodie’s drawstring. “I thought you’d know about it.”
“Oh?” Andy is pretty pleased by how nonchalant he sounds.
Bob looks up at him, his frown deepening.
You can't mask scent, dumbass. Andy knows he smells nervous as hell.
But Bob doesn’t call him on it; he just pushes up his sleeve, and points to his bared forearm.
“I got this in June.”
Andy stares at the v-shaped scar. “That was three months ago.”
“Yup.”
“You don’t scar.”
“Not normally, no,” Bob mutters. “Which is why I called you.”
He glances at the nearest booth. It's overrun by a group of college kids, table crowded with coffee mugs and half-finished plates of fries, notes abandoned for gossip. There is a slight dark-haired girl, her hair twisted up into a messy ponytail, who keeps glancing their way.
“Let’s get out of here,” Andy says.
The relief on Bob’s face is fleeting but genuine.
Back in the dark, they turn left. The street lights pool glare on the slate sidewalks. The metro rumbles overhead. Neither of them look up or say much of anything. Andy appreciates the comfortable silence now, even as he weighs what he wants to say against what he can reveal.
Bob stops at the end of the block by a chain-link fence. In the dim light, Andy sees a small park. Past the basketball court is a playground, with a merry-go-round, swings, slide, and some monkey bars. The sandbox has half-buried plastic shapes in it. There's a flutter of white by the nearest corner - it's a toy sailboat, the white cloth sail flapping loose in the breeze.
Andy sees Bob sniff and wrinkle his nose at the merry-go-round.
“Is this going to work? We can find somewhere else…”
“What?” Bob looks startled.
“It’s the paint, right?” Even Andy can smell the fresh paint job.
“Oh. Yeah, it should be fine.”
Andy knows it's not okay, but he can also see the tense hunch of Bob’s shoulders so he lets it go.
Bob lights a cigarette after they knock rainwater from the swing seats. They swing back and forth a bit, the chains creaking with their weight and movement.
The sail keeps flapping, catching Andy's eye. He thinks of white flags, of truce, and sighs. The sail flutters again, as if in sympathy. Andy frowns, looks closer at the boat. If he squints, Andy can just see the faint outline of two tiny figures, watching him through dripping bangs. Spidery fingers the color of smoke tug at the toy, and the pair lean around the little boat.
Figures. Andy sketches a half circle in the gravel with the toe of his shoe. A double tap of fingers against the nearest pole sends a clear tone ringing out in the chilly air. Andy hears a pair of high fluting voices scolding him, the sound cutting off as the shield drops around them. Andy lets the swing’s chains twist him back around in a lazy circle, towards Bob. Bob is working his jaw, trying to adjust to the pressure drop and watching him. The expression on his face is caught somewhere between disgruntled and wary.
“What is it?”
Andy shrugs. “Eavesdroppers.”
“Who…”
“Just some gossips. I figure you want this to be a private conversation,” Andy says, and gestures to Bob's arm. "What did it look like?"
[Bob describes it. Andy grimaces.]
"You know what it is."
"Unfortunately. Though, Iowa's pretty far outside of it's normal territory."
“Their …normal territory. Which is where?”
“Places far hotter.”
“You didn’t tour through Iowa this summer.” Bob said grinning. He looks at Andy and the grin vanishes.
“Well, that would explain why it was there…” Andy mutters.
“When you say hotter do you mean Egypt?”
“They end up in Mesopotamia more often, but ah, no that’s not what I mean," Andy says, keeping his eyes on the sailboat. “They are a type of demon, one that doesn't leave the Twelve Hells. Generally.”
~~~
~Rough out of my writing journal. [updated 1-14-12; still rough, though.]
Master post is located here.
~~~~
Green Day is on the radio, and Andy’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, absently feeling his way through the beat as he watches the diner. It stopped raining hours ago, but the clouds haven’t lifted - the digital clock on his dashboard say it’s around six, but it’s dark enough out there for midnight. he windows are fogging up at the edges. He can’t get the heater in the car to work, and he’s feeling too stubborn to adjust the ambient temperature. The cold keeps him sharp, or at least focused.
He sees the flash of familiar blonde hair and turns off the radio.
The diner’s warm and bright, bustling with sound. As he slips in the door, Andy makes sure to stay out of Bob’s blind spot, pulling the door closed with a definite thump. He sees a smile twitch on Bob’s mouth before he turns, to nod at Andy. Andy always forgets how much there is to Bob - yeah, he’s taller than Andy, but not by much. He’s solidly built, but not really physically *big*. It’s not his personality either - Bob’s a pretty quiet dude. It’s his spirit - Bob Bryar is one of the most self-contained, self-aware Fianin Andy’s ever met and that resonates through his threads, and through the threads he touches.
[They look at each other, fidget with the silverware.] Bob orders a burger, rare, and a coke. Andy orders black coffee and home fries. Something tinny with a Latin beat gusts out every time the kitchen door swings open. Bob scowls at the noise and rubs at his forearm. [When the food arrives, they eat without saying much. Bob finished first, pushes the plate away and looks at Andy.]
"I need some information.”
“That’s what you said on the phone.”
“Yeah,” Bob says. “I ran into… something on tour and I…” he frowns and tugs at his hoodie’s drawstring. “I thought you’d know about it.”
“Oh?” Andy is pretty pleased by how nonchalant he sounds.
Bob looks up at him, his frown deepening.
You can't mask scent, dumbass. Andy knows he smells nervous as hell.
But Bob doesn’t call him on it; he just pushes up his sleeve, and points to his bared forearm.
“I got this in June.”
Andy stares at the v-shaped scar. “That was three months ago.”
“Yup.”
“You don’t scar.”
“Not normally, no,” Bob mutters. “Which is why I called you.”
He glances at the nearest booth. It's overrun by a group of college kids, table crowded with coffee mugs and half-finished plates of fries, notes abandoned for gossip. There is a slight dark-haired girl, her hair twisted up into a messy ponytail, who keeps glancing their way.
“Let’s get out of here,” Andy says.
The relief on Bob’s face is fleeting but genuine.
Back in the dark, they turn left. The street lights pool glare on the slate sidewalks. The metro rumbles overhead. Neither of them look up or say much of anything. Andy appreciates the comfortable silence now, even as he weighs what he wants to say against what he can reveal.
Bob stops at the end of the block by a chain-link fence. In the dim light, Andy sees a small park. Past the basketball court is a playground, with a merry-go-round, swings, slide, and some monkey bars. The sandbox has half-buried plastic shapes in it. There's a flutter of white by the nearest corner - it's a toy sailboat, the white cloth sail flapping loose in the breeze.
Andy sees Bob sniff and wrinkle his nose at the merry-go-round.
“Is this going to work? We can find somewhere else…”
“What?” Bob looks startled.
“It’s the paint, right?” Even Andy can smell the fresh paint job.
“Oh. Yeah, it should be fine.”
Andy knows it's not okay, but he can also see the tense hunch of Bob’s shoulders so he lets it go.
Bob lights a cigarette after they knock rainwater from the swing seats. They swing back and forth a bit, the chains creaking with their weight and movement.
The sail keeps flapping, catching Andy's eye. He thinks of white flags, of truce, and sighs. The sail flutters again, as if in sympathy. Andy frowns, looks closer at the boat. If he squints, Andy can just see the faint outline of two tiny figures, watching him through dripping bangs. Spidery fingers the color of smoke tug at the toy, and the pair lean around the little boat.
Figures. Andy sketches a half circle in the gravel with the toe of his shoe. A double tap of fingers against the nearest pole sends a clear tone ringing out in the chilly air. Andy hears a pair of high fluting voices scolding him, the sound cutting off as the shield drops around them. Andy lets the swing’s chains twist him back around in a lazy circle, towards Bob. Bob is working his jaw, trying to adjust to the pressure drop and watching him. The expression on his face is caught somewhere between disgruntled and wary.
“What is it?”
Andy shrugs. “Eavesdroppers.”
“Who…”
“Just some gossips. I figure you want this to be a private conversation,” Andy says, and gestures to Bob's arm. "What did it look like?"
[Bob describes it. Andy grimaces.]
"You know what it is."
"Unfortunately. Though, Iowa's pretty far outside of it's normal territory."
“Their …normal territory. Which is where?”
“Places far hotter.”
“You didn’t tour through Iowa this summer.” Bob said grinning. He looks at Andy and the grin vanishes.
“Well, that would explain why it was there…” Andy mutters.
“When you say hotter do you mean Egypt?”
“They end up in Mesopotamia more often, but ah, no that’s not what I mean," Andy says, keeping his eyes on the sailboat. “They are a type of demon, one that doesn't leave the Twelve Hells. Generally.”
~~~