Merry Christmas indeed.
Monday, 24 December 2012 16:00![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouSewall's kind of a grinch (and an ass), and Flint's kind of a dick.
24 December, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (75% full).
Christmas Eve, and Garcia's is, surprisingly, open. There's even a decent number of diners tonight, people with no family to spend the evening with or who don't celebrate this particular holiday or who just don't like to cook at home. Sewall's one of these, seated at a small table near the back with no one sitting near him. The grim, bookish young Fang has a NY sized pepperoni pizza with few pieces already gone from it, a glass of iced tea, and a book on applied robotics. His attention's focussed almost entirely on the book as he mechanically chews through a slice.
For one reason or another, Flint's ventured from the Tenement, early enough in the evening that he does so, to Garcia's for pizza. Very determined for pizza. The cliath Glass Walker lets the door close behind him, catching it with one hand to close it more gently and moving across to the counter. His headphones are pulled out and draped over one shoulder, and Flint orders, pays, and glances across to look at who's here. Sewall gets a brief nod, acknowledgement.
Sewall is in mid-chew when Flint enters. He stares unsmilingly at the Walker and returns the nod before shifting his eyes back to his book. He keeps glancing up, though; his manner's not exactly welcoming, but he's not ignoring the other cliath, either.
Flint takes the cup he got with his order and goes over to the soda machine, filling it with coke and then sticking a straw in it. He doesn't go over to join Sewall, returning to the counter area to wait, but on his way back, he does pause. "Merry Christmas." Unsmiling as the Silver Fang may be, Flint's polite, if a great deal tense.
Into the pizza parlour comes a Nieve. In spite of the moon, in spite of the holiday, she has chosen pizza—and her order is for a meat feast. Of course. She's not quiet about it, her distinctive dreadlocks making her easy to spot as well as hear, the Theurge apparently in a damn good mood by the sound of things.
"Christmas isn't until tomorrow," Sewall says in response to Flint, rather grouchily in fact. He looks past the other cliath toward Nieve, his eyes tracking the cheerful Theurge with a frown.
"Christmas eve. It. Same difference, both day, both, the." Flint doesn't seem particularly inclined to bother with words, and he's distracted by his tribemate's entrance to Garcia's. He waits for her to be done ordering, and then shrugs a shoulder at Sewall and wanders over to Nieve, waving, and then hugging her—briefly but quite tightly.
The hug is returned as tightly, and Nieve bestows a cheerful smile on Flint. "Gracias hermanito," she voices, kissing his cheek. Decidedly aunt-to-nephew or older-sibling-to-younger rather than anything endangering the Litany, but with obvious care nonetheless. "My present is lovely. I wish I'd had a chance to get people things, but I've been busy babysitting a stick," she tells him, before drifting with Flint back over to the table he was at. Sewall gets a polite nod from the Adren, his book a thoughtful glance.
Sewall is in a distinctly Grinchish mood today, and neither Flint's answer nor the display of affection between the two Glass Walkers improves things any. He utters a low 'hmph' and turns a dull glower back onto his book, though in truth he's glaring more than reading now.
The galliard grins at Nieve and shakes his head. "I'm glad you like it, 'sokay." Flint moves to reclaim his soda now that he's gotten to hug Nieve, and to wait for his own pizza. "It…" There's another shrug from the Walker cliath, and whether seeing Sewall had influenced his mood, Flint's mood has improved now.
"Robotics, Mr. Gagnan?" Nieve asks mildly, then smiles again at Flint. "I'll do a roundup of gifts in the new year when I'm done re-anchoring myself. Three cheers for stick-sitting duty being over."
Flint sips at his Coke thoughtfully, and nods again, with a brief and murmured protest about not needing anything. Louder, though, he asks his tribemate. "Over now, or when? The, th-the, fetish back to the cats, now?"
"Yeah, over now. He is taking it back tonight," Nieve agrees, though taps a finger to her lips. "More subtlety, young padawan," she then admonishes the cliath lightly.
Flint makes a slightly abashed face and raises one hand to his forehead, then glances about. Not that there are many people about, and fewer yet of them are venturing near the Garou. And not that Flint's 'loud' is above a quiet conversational, audible next to him and maybe a bit further. "Yes'm," he responds to Nieve. "Good, though. Glad to, have you 'round more, too, not have to go out to the park, to."
"Yeah. Hopefully be able to get more involved in shit now I'm not a part-timer," Nieve agrees, taking a long drink from her soda.
Flint nods. At this point, the cliath's pizza is ready—two large sized pizza boxes, apparently, which Flint gets up to retrieve and bring back to where his soda is. Another bright grin to his tribemate, but then Flint busies himself shoving a piece of pizza in his mouth, rather than saying anything.
With her pizza being ready, Nieve grins at the two Cliath—the brooding Sewall as much as Flint, and then hoists her box of awesome nom and heads out to eat it somewhere else.
Sewall has been doing an effective job of mostly ignoring the two Walkers—apart from a mild grunt when Nieve noticed his reading material, of course. Having polished off another slice of his pepperoni, he looks up and regards the skinny Galliard and his repast, his expression stony.
Flint finishes his first slice of pizza and follows it with soda, picking up a second. Fast as he does eat, it's also with a fair amount of care not to get any of it on his clothing, and equal care shown to wiping his hand off on a napkin before fidgeting with his phone. Pizza grease and electronics don't mix. There is a glance up in between bites, watching Sewall, but without much effort to actually interact.
Sewall wipes his mouth, closes his pizza box with its remaining four or five slices, and gathers his things together. The book on robotics gets stowed in a backpack and the warm green overcoat and yellow scarf are donned. It's all quite a process, but eventually he's back on his feet with cane gripped in his left hand and pizza box in his right. He hobbles toward the door, but stops at Flint's table to glower down at the Galliard. "Has your club done anything yet to investigate the source of that security leak?" he demands.
The glower sours Flint's mood significantly, gets a jut of his chin and a hard stare. "Yes." Which seems to be just as many words as the Walker's got in him right now, because he gets up, pizza boxes and soda grabbed, and shoulders a bit roughly past Sewall to get towards the door to leave.
Pack> Flint mutters over the packlink, quite grouchy. "Dumb prick. Christmas, can't he be nice on Christmas?"
Pack> Alexandra says, "You've got to give it until Christmas morning, Flint. Whether it's Dickens or Dr. Seuss, they don't turn nice until then. Or you could always take matters into your own hands and get a Theurge to help you Scrooge him."
The bump's not hard, as such things go, but it's enough to make the lamed Ragabash stumble back a step, and then lose his balance completely when his heel lands on a greasy spot on the floor. An instant of panic widens the eyes behind the clunky glasses before he hits the floor, landing on his ass in the most undignified way possible. The pizza box lands a moment later and slides a foot or so.
And, a moment after that, laughter from some of the nearby witnesses.
Flint doesn't laugh. On the other hand, he doesn't stop, either. The Glass Walker doesn't stop, but he does move a nearby chair to where Sewall will be able to use it, moves the pizza box (with his foot) to where it won't get stepped on, and looks down at Sewall, his expression blank and stony. Then the Glass Walker glowers for a moment at everyone laughing, and leaves.
Pack> Flint sighs a little. "I don't think Sewall's going to turn nice ever. Condescending fucking self-righteous bastard." The impression that it's a lot of words in a row for Galliard moon comes across pretty clearly too.
It's not likely that Sewall registers the fact that Flint's not joining in the laughter; he's too distracted by his own rage and pain, both of which are quite considerable. The Walker's long gone by the time that the Fang manages to regain his feet. Merry Christmas indeed.
24 December, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (75% full).
Christmas Eve, and Garcia's is, surprisingly, open. There's even a decent number of diners tonight, people with no family to spend the evening with or who don't celebrate this particular holiday or who just don't like to cook at home. Sewall's one of these, seated at a small table near the back with no one sitting near him. The grim, bookish young Fang has a NY sized pepperoni pizza with few pieces already gone from it, a glass of iced tea, and a book on applied robotics. His attention's focussed almost entirely on the book as he mechanically chews through a slice.
For one reason or another, Flint's ventured from the Tenement, early enough in the evening that he does so, to Garcia's for pizza. Very determined for pizza. The cliath Glass Walker lets the door close behind him, catching it with one hand to close it more gently and moving across to the counter. His headphones are pulled out and draped over one shoulder, and Flint orders, pays, and glances across to look at who's here. Sewall gets a brief nod, acknowledgement.
Sewall is in mid-chew when Flint enters. He stares unsmilingly at the Walker and returns the nod before shifting his eyes back to his book. He keeps glancing up, though; his manner's not exactly welcoming, but he's not ignoring the other cliath, either.
Flint takes the cup he got with his order and goes over to the soda machine, filling it with coke and then sticking a straw in it. He doesn't go over to join Sewall, returning to the counter area to wait, but on his way back, he does pause. "Merry Christmas." Unsmiling as the Silver Fang may be, Flint's polite, if a great deal tense.
Into the pizza parlour comes a Nieve. In spite of the moon, in spite of the holiday, she has chosen pizza—and her order is for a meat feast. Of course. She's not quiet about it, her distinctive dreadlocks making her easy to spot as well as hear, the Theurge apparently in a damn good mood by the sound of things.
"Christmas isn't until tomorrow," Sewall says in response to Flint, rather grouchily in fact. He looks past the other cliath toward Nieve, his eyes tracking the cheerful Theurge with a frown.
"Christmas eve. It. Same difference, both day, both, the." Flint doesn't seem particularly inclined to bother with words, and he's distracted by his tribemate's entrance to Garcia's. He waits for her to be done ordering, and then shrugs a shoulder at Sewall and wanders over to Nieve, waving, and then hugging her—briefly but quite tightly.
The hug is returned as tightly, and Nieve bestows a cheerful smile on Flint. "Gracias hermanito," she voices, kissing his cheek. Decidedly aunt-to-nephew or older-sibling-to-younger rather than anything endangering the Litany, but with obvious care nonetheless. "My present is lovely. I wish I'd had a chance to get people things, but I've been busy babysitting a stick," she tells him, before drifting with Flint back over to the table he was at. Sewall gets a polite nod from the Adren, his book a thoughtful glance.
Sewall is in a distinctly Grinchish mood today, and neither Flint's answer nor the display of affection between the two Glass Walkers improves things any. He utters a low 'hmph' and turns a dull glower back onto his book, though in truth he's glaring more than reading now.
The galliard grins at Nieve and shakes his head. "I'm glad you like it, 'sokay." Flint moves to reclaim his soda now that he's gotten to hug Nieve, and to wait for his own pizza. "It…" There's another shrug from the Walker cliath, and whether seeing Sewall had influenced his mood, Flint's mood has improved now.
"Robotics, Mr. Gagnan?" Nieve asks mildly, then smiles again at Flint. "I'll do a roundup of gifts in the new year when I'm done re-anchoring myself. Three cheers for stick-sitting duty being over."
Flint sips at his Coke thoughtfully, and nods again, with a brief and murmured protest about not needing anything. Louder, though, he asks his tribemate. "Over now, or when? The, th-the, fetish back to the cats, now?"
"Yeah, over now. He is taking it back tonight," Nieve agrees, though taps a finger to her lips. "More subtlety, young padawan," she then admonishes the cliath lightly.
Flint makes a slightly abashed face and raises one hand to his forehead, then glances about. Not that there are many people about, and fewer yet of them are venturing near the Garou. And not that Flint's 'loud' is above a quiet conversational, audible next to him and maybe a bit further. "Yes'm," he responds to Nieve. "Good, though. Glad to, have you 'round more, too, not have to go out to the park, to."
"Yeah. Hopefully be able to get more involved in shit now I'm not a part-timer," Nieve agrees, taking a long drink from her soda.
Flint nods. At this point, the cliath's pizza is ready—two large sized pizza boxes, apparently, which Flint gets up to retrieve and bring back to where his soda is. Another bright grin to his tribemate, but then Flint busies himself shoving a piece of pizza in his mouth, rather than saying anything.
With her pizza being ready, Nieve grins at the two Cliath—the brooding Sewall as much as Flint, and then hoists her box of awesome nom and heads out to eat it somewhere else.
Sewall has been doing an effective job of mostly ignoring the two Walkers—apart from a mild grunt when Nieve noticed his reading material, of course. Having polished off another slice of his pepperoni, he looks up and regards the skinny Galliard and his repast, his expression stony.
Flint finishes his first slice of pizza and follows it with soda, picking up a second. Fast as he does eat, it's also with a fair amount of care not to get any of it on his clothing, and equal care shown to wiping his hand off on a napkin before fidgeting with his phone. Pizza grease and electronics don't mix. There is a glance up in between bites, watching Sewall, but without much effort to actually interact.
Sewall wipes his mouth, closes his pizza box with its remaining four or five slices, and gathers his things together. The book on robotics gets stowed in a backpack and the warm green overcoat and yellow scarf are donned. It's all quite a process, but eventually he's back on his feet with cane gripped in his left hand and pizza box in his right. He hobbles toward the door, but stops at Flint's table to glower down at the Galliard. "Has your club done anything yet to investigate the source of that security leak?" he demands.
The glower sours Flint's mood significantly, gets a jut of his chin and a hard stare. "Yes." Which seems to be just as many words as the Walker's got in him right now, because he gets up, pizza boxes and soda grabbed, and shoulders a bit roughly past Sewall to get towards the door to leave.
Pack> Flint mutters over the packlink, quite grouchy. "Dumb prick. Christmas, can't he be nice on Christmas?"
Pack> Alexandra says, "You've got to give it until Christmas morning, Flint. Whether it's Dickens or Dr. Seuss, they don't turn nice until then. Or you could always take matters into your own hands and get a Theurge to help you Scrooge him."
The bump's not hard, as such things go, but it's enough to make the lamed Ragabash stumble back a step, and then lose his balance completely when his heel lands on a greasy spot on the floor. An instant of panic widens the eyes behind the clunky glasses before he hits the floor, landing on his ass in the most undignified way possible. The pizza box lands a moment later and slides a foot or so.
And, a moment after that, laughter from some of the nearby witnesses.
Flint doesn't laugh. On the other hand, he doesn't stop, either. The Glass Walker doesn't stop, but he does move a nearby chair to where Sewall will be able to use it, moves the pizza box (with his foot) to where it won't get stepped on, and looks down at Sewall, his expression blank and stony. Then the Glass Walker glowers for a moment at everyone laughing, and leaves.
Pack> Flint sighs a little. "I don't think Sewall's going to turn nice ever. Condescending fucking self-righteous bastard." The impression that it's a lot of words in a row for Galliard moon comes across pretty clearly too.
It's not likely that Sewall registers the fact that Flint's not joining in the laughter; he's too distracted by his own rage and pain, both of which are quite considerable. The Walker's long gone by the time that the Fang manages to regain his feet. Merry Christmas indeed.