Toy Soldiers: Someone Else's Story (PG)
Summary: It's easy to overlook what's going on around you.
Notes: Three-fer today: fourth "Road Trip" story, written for prompt 56, "breakfast," and NENN for June 6th. Whew!
SOMEONE ELSE'S STORY
*
click
"--rtly cloudy, possibility of rain 30 percent, highs in the mid-60s. Tonight, cloudy, chance of rain 70 percent, lows in the high 40s -- so if you're going to the game tonight, don't forget your coat and umbrella! Tomorrow, mostly cloudy, chance of rain --"
Billy finally hit the right button, and the radio shut off. What the fuck time was it? It was summer vacation, he was supposed to be able to sleep in. Why had he set a fucking alarm for, uh, 7 AM?
Oh. Right. Chicago. Yogurt. "If you've got a couple days...just two days. There's some cool stuff here, I promise."
He'd better be right, Billy thought, and sat up with a yawn.
The weather outside wasn't partly cloudy, except if by 'partly' you meant 'almost every part.' Chance of rain, the guy had said. It looked like the kind of heavy, bleak day you expected in fall, or spring, all rain and depressing and -- Jesus, if he kept up like this, he was gonna start sounding like that song, what was it called? By one of those metal bands they used to play on the radio all the time. Something about cold November rain. Except it was June.
He got showered, and dressed, then headed for the elevator. The hotel offered a free breakfast buffet. Had to be better than eating at McDonalds or Dunkin Donuts: he'd been on the road long enough that he was getting pretty sick of rubber eggs and overspiced sausage patties and soggy pancakes.
For fuck's sake, Tepper, get over yourself before Yogurt gets here. Your choice to make the trip, remember, genius? Besides, so long as the coffee was decent, he'd be fine. He could always grab something somewhere else. Ask Yogurt where the good diners were, something like that.
There were people already on the elevator when Billy got on, which surprised him more than it should've. It wasn't that early, especially for a weekday. He hit the button for the first floor, and tried to pretend he wasn't there.
"--bad idea," the man was saying. "And telling them is a worse one."
"If I don't tell them, it misses the entire point, my dear."
Billy glanced over, trying to look without looking like he was looking. The guy was maybe ten years older than Billy, suit and tie, fancy watch that Billy only saw because the guy was running his hand through his dark hair. His other hand gripped a briefcase, the fancy kind like Billy had seen his mother carry.
"Give me two weeks," the guy said abruptly. "One week. I can arrange--"
"My decision, Mr. Stephenson."
Billy tried to remember what the woman looked like. He'd caught a glimpse when he got on the elevator, of course, but now she was standing almost in back of him, and if he turned his head it would be really fucking obvious he was looking. Old, he thought. White hair, anyway. Dressed in something elegant: not a suit like Mr. Stephenson, something lacier. Faint British accent, and a voice like polished steel. The guy must be a lawyer or something, if he kept arguing with that.
"I understand that," Mr. Stephenson said, as the elevator opened on the first floor. "But it's my responsibility to make certain--"
Billy didn't hear what Stephenson had to make certain of: he and the lady headed for the front door, not the hotel restaurant. Billy watched them for a second, idly wondering where their coats were, and aw fuck he hadn't brought his coat either. What time was it? If he ate fast, maybe he could run upstairs and grab it before going out to meet Yogurt.
The coffee was decent. Maybe even good. Better than McDonalds, anyway, and way better than the sludge he'd had yesterday from the gas station coffeepot. So much for road trip authenticity for that write-up Kevin wanted.
Shit, another responsibility he'd almost forgot: he owed Kevin an email, or at least a post-card. After breakfast he'd have to ask at the desk, see if the hotel had any kind of internet connection he could use. So much for relaxing. Maybe he should've gone with the tea. Joey always said--
"Nobody knows."
Billy jumped, and looked up. Knows what -- what the fuck -- he wasn't hiding anything!
Oh. Just the couple who'd been seated next table over. The woman was leaning forward and talking quietly to the guy next to her. "--seen they're even looking. Maybe--"
"Too dangerous," the man said, just as quietly.
"After a year--"
Billy didn't catch what the guy said, just something about "won't give up," and somebody named Salmon, or Solomon, something like that. He looked away quickly so he wouldn't be caught staring. Again. If they were in some kind of trouble, it wasn't like he could help. Not here. Not alone.
He glanced back over one more time, just in case they turned up on milk cartons or TV or something. Guy was dressed like a Goth, black clothes, black hair. Girl was all in black too, but her hair was reddish blonde, pulled back in some kind of twist thing or braid or whatever. Kinda elegant, like the old lady in the elevator. Pretty, too.
He got up and went to get more coffee, and maybe another muffin. They had a pretty good selection of muffins. The couple was gone by the time he sat back down. It wasn't until then that it occurred to him: black trench-coat and sunglasses and talking about danger? Maybe they were Mafia wise guys instead of Goths. Could've given them Mr. Trotta's phone number.
He caught himself snickering into his muffin and drank his entire cup of coffee to make himself stop, because it wasn't that fucking funny.
Once he finished his muffin, and decided he wasn't awake enough to try an omelet, he headed for the elevators. Just a quick run, grab his coat, then he could meet Yogurt and try to enjoy himself for the next couple days.
There was a guy already waiting by the elevator, soon joined by another guy. The first guy glanced over, and said quietly, "Are they here?"
"Sixteenth floor," the second guy said. "1607. I couldn't get the key--"
"Got that covered," the first guy said, with a faint smile, and patted his pocket.
The second guy shook his head, although he smiled too, just a little. "Kyle! We should probably try knocking first."
The first guy -- Kyle, apparently -- shrugged, and didn't say anything until the elevator arrived. He stepped on first, and looked around it like he was the second guy's bodyguard or something. For a second, Billy thought about waiting for another elevator.
Fuck it. He hadn't done anything wrong, he told himself firmly, and got on the elevator anyway.
Kyle and the other guy didn't talk on the elevator. When they got off, though, Kyle waved the other guy out first, and followed him out, his hand resting for a moment on the guy's lower back.
Oh. Not his bodyguard. His lover. Or maybe both.
The elevator door closed, and Billy rode up the rest of the way to his floor. He had to get his jacket. It could rain.
-end-
Notes: Three-fer today: fourth "Road Trip" story, written for prompt 56, "breakfast," and NENN for June 6th. Whew!
SOMEONE ELSE'S STORY
*
click
"--rtly cloudy, possibility of rain 30 percent, highs in the mid-60s. Tonight, cloudy, chance of rain 70 percent, lows in the high 40s -- so if you're going to the game tonight, don't forget your coat and umbrella! Tomorrow, mostly cloudy, chance of rain --"
Billy finally hit the right button, and the radio shut off. What the fuck time was it? It was summer vacation, he was supposed to be able to sleep in. Why had he set a fucking alarm for, uh, 7 AM?
Oh. Right. Chicago. Yogurt. "If you've got a couple days...just two days. There's some cool stuff here, I promise."
He'd better be right, Billy thought, and sat up with a yawn.
The weather outside wasn't partly cloudy, except if by 'partly' you meant 'almost every part.' Chance of rain, the guy had said. It looked like the kind of heavy, bleak day you expected in fall, or spring, all rain and depressing and -- Jesus, if he kept up like this, he was gonna start sounding like that song, what was it called? By one of those metal bands they used to play on the radio all the time. Something about cold November rain. Except it was June.
He got showered, and dressed, then headed for the elevator. The hotel offered a free breakfast buffet. Had to be better than eating at McDonalds or Dunkin Donuts: he'd been on the road long enough that he was getting pretty sick of rubber eggs and overspiced sausage patties and soggy pancakes.
For fuck's sake, Tepper, get over yourself before Yogurt gets here. Your choice to make the trip, remember, genius? Besides, so long as the coffee was decent, he'd be fine. He could always grab something somewhere else. Ask Yogurt where the good diners were, something like that.
There were people already on the elevator when Billy got on, which surprised him more than it should've. It wasn't that early, especially for a weekday. He hit the button for the first floor, and tried to pretend he wasn't there.
"--bad idea," the man was saying. "And telling them is a worse one."
"If I don't tell them, it misses the entire point, my dear."
Billy glanced over, trying to look without looking like he was looking. The guy was maybe ten years older than Billy, suit and tie, fancy watch that Billy only saw because the guy was running his hand through his dark hair. His other hand gripped a briefcase, the fancy kind like Billy had seen his mother carry.
"Give me two weeks," the guy said abruptly. "One week. I can arrange--"
"My decision, Mr. Stephenson."
Billy tried to remember what the woman looked like. He'd caught a glimpse when he got on the elevator, of course, but now she was standing almost in back of him, and if he turned his head it would be really fucking obvious he was looking. Old, he thought. White hair, anyway. Dressed in something elegant: not a suit like Mr. Stephenson, something lacier. Faint British accent, and a voice like polished steel. The guy must be a lawyer or something, if he kept arguing with that.
"I understand that," Mr. Stephenson said, as the elevator opened on the first floor. "But it's my responsibility to make certain--"
Billy didn't hear what Stephenson had to make certain of: he and the lady headed for the front door, not the hotel restaurant. Billy watched them for a second, idly wondering where their coats were, and aw fuck he hadn't brought his coat either. What time was it? If he ate fast, maybe he could run upstairs and grab it before going out to meet Yogurt.
The coffee was decent. Maybe even good. Better than McDonalds, anyway, and way better than the sludge he'd had yesterday from the gas station coffeepot. So much for road trip authenticity for that write-up Kevin wanted.
Shit, another responsibility he'd almost forgot: he owed Kevin an email, or at least a post-card. After breakfast he'd have to ask at the desk, see if the hotel had any kind of internet connection he could use. So much for relaxing. Maybe he should've gone with the tea. Joey always said--
"Nobody knows."
Billy jumped, and looked up. Knows what -- what the fuck -- he wasn't hiding anything!
Oh. Just the couple who'd been seated next table over. The woman was leaning forward and talking quietly to the guy next to her. "--seen they're even looking. Maybe--"
"Too dangerous," the man said, just as quietly.
"After a year--"
Billy didn't catch what the guy said, just something about "won't give up," and somebody named Salmon, or Solomon, something like that. He looked away quickly so he wouldn't be caught staring. Again. If they were in some kind of trouble, it wasn't like he could help. Not here. Not alone.
He glanced back over one more time, just in case they turned up on milk cartons or TV or something. Guy was dressed like a Goth, black clothes, black hair. Girl was all in black too, but her hair was reddish blonde, pulled back in some kind of twist thing or braid or whatever. Kinda elegant, like the old lady in the elevator. Pretty, too.
He got up and went to get more coffee, and maybe another muffin. They had a pretty good selection of muffins. The couple was gone by the time he sat back down. It wasn't until then that it occurred to him: black trench-coat and sunglasses and talking about danger? Maybe they were Mafia wise guys instead of Goths. Could've given them Mr. Trotta's phone number.
He caught himself snickering into his muffin and drank his entire cup of coffee to make himself stop, because it wasn't that fucking funny.
Once he finished his muffin, and decided he wasn't awake enough to try an omelet, he headed for the elevators. Just a quick run, grab his coat, then he could meet Yogurt and try to enjoy himself for the next couple days.
There was a guy already waiting by the elevator, soon joined by another guy. The first guy glanced over, and said quietly, "Are they here?"
"Sixteenth floor," the second guy said. "1607. I couldn't get the key--"
"Got that covered," the first guy said, with a faint smile, and patted his pocket.
The second guy shook his head, although he smiled too, just a little. "Kyle! We should probably try knocking first."
The first guy -- Kyle, apparently -- shrugged, and didn't say anything until the elevator arrived. He stepped on first, and looked around it like he was the second guy's bodyguard or something. For a second, Billy thought about waiting for another elevator.
Fuck it. He hadn't done anything wrong, he told himself firmly, and got on the elevator anyway.
Kyle and the other guy didn't talk on the elevator. When they got off, though, Kyle waved the other guy out first, and followed him out, his hand resting for a moment on the guy's lower back.
Oh. Not his bodyguard. His lover. Or maybe both.
The elevator door closed, and Billy rode up the rest of the way to his floor. He had to get his jacket. It could rain.
-end-