whistlersmum (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} whistlersmum) wrote,@ 2009-02-02 00:14:00 |
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Order Up
Whistler parked his car 'in the rear!' as instructed, locked it up tight (the neighborhood not exactly forgiving, his first impression) and finished his cigarette outside of the, ahem, family, restaurant. He double-checked his PDA to make sure he had the proper location. Somehow he'd hoped that, with Hannah's resurrection of sorts, the Powers That Be would've played a less cruel joke on the blonde pixie. She deserved a step up, not sideways into a joint that traded pies for pancakes.
He dropped the cigarette butt onto the concrete and scraped it along with the heel of his shoe. It was moderately warmer the past three days and most of the slush and snow had receded into the drain pipes. He checked the 'open' sign on the door (foolish really as the dingy restaurant was open 24 hours) and pushed inside the Golden Nugget Pancake House.
Golden Nugget? Apparently you could take the girl out of Las Vegas, but not vice versa.
The hatted man sat at the counter, picked up what looked like a recently wiped plastic-coated menu, and oggled the $7.99 special.
Hannah, otherwise known as 'Carrie' by the staff, was in the public bathroom. She wasn't using it. No power under the sun could make her do that. With hands on hips, she stared into the murky contents of the bowl. The toilet paper, water, and other substances combined to make it look like a sewage soup. Since the last attempt to plunge it, bubbles rose to the surface periodically, aiding the illusion. The plunger handle rested against the porcelain seat like a ladle. "Here goes nothing." Doing a precarious balance, she lifted her shoe and tapped the flusher.
Gurgle, gurgle... gurgle.
Wide-eyed, she watched as the water level began to rise. It spilled over the lip of the toilet and began to advance on the waitress. "Oh, hell no!" Abandoning the chore, Hannah hot-footed it out of the bathroom and went behind the counter. "Loretta!" She stuck her hands in the closest sink and scrubbed like a surgeon might. "The toilet's possessed! Since I'm not a priest, I think you better call somebody quick!" She flicked droplets from her fingers and dried them in a clean rag. Hannah turned around and flipped pages on her tiny note pad. "I sure hope you don't have to use the facilities," she advised her newest customer without looking up.
The Agent was a brave man; not the bravest, certainly, but he'd stared down his fair share of apocalypses in his long life. Most of the time he didn't wet his pants. But watching the waitress with the speed of a gazelle charge from the fright behind the communal bathroom, it caused him to slightly gulp. It didn't help that the woman claimed the porcelain product to be possessed.
It wouldn't have been the first time, either. After all, urban myths had to start somewhere...
"I think I can hold it," Whistler murmured, nose still stuck in the menu. Were the pictures real? Could bacon really look like that? He wondered if, should PETA ever stop in on their way to a march, they'd demand the images be burned. "As long as you promise the coffee won't go through me, I think we're fine."
"Heh!" Hand on the pot of caffeinated, Hannah could only wince and hope it didn't. "You can always use the ladies' if you need to. Or just go behind the dumpsters, like everybody else." The last sentence was mumbled, barely loud enough for the blonde to hear herself. She flipped a white mug and poured coffee to its brim. A little bowl of creamer was set beneath the menu. All Hannah could see was the tip of the customer's hat. She thought of the Nugget in Searchlight, and how Verlie would've knocked it off the poor guy's head for not having any home training.
"What'll it be? We've got a sausage platter on special. It comes with hash browns, eggs, fried apples and a biscuit." And possibly food poisoning. But she left that out, on account of last time. Half the counter had gotten up and left without paying their tickets, which meant no tips for Hannah, which meant no cash for bills.
Whistler struggled with the choice. His stomach demanded grease and pork, but his brain counter-measured with the thought of just what else people voided behind the dumpsters. She might've hoped her voice was low enough, and it would've been for a normal person, but he was far from normal. That the waitress even uttered the comment gave him hope for a tiny bit of honesty.
"Can ya vouch for the sausages," he asked politely, finally placing the menu down onto the counter.
"I can vouch for the sausages!" Hannah scribbled on her notepad and held it up. 'DON'T DO IT!'
As she lifted her eyes, she caught sight of her old friend and clamped her lips together to contain a squeal. It came out anyway. Speedily stamping her feet in excitement, she held her reaction in reasonable check, meaning she didn't jump over the counter and tackle him. But she did hoist herself up and give him a one-armed hug across it. "Whistler!" she hissed quietly. "Oh my gosh, am I glad to see you! Do you know, you're the first person I've seen since I got back?! I'd freak out all over the place, but I'm supposed to be in mourning!"
The tips of her shoes slip-slid on the tiles, so she released his neck and settled onto her feet.
There was a two-second delay in his reaction. The squeal caught him completely off-guard and surely the hug would've gotten him to back up if it hadn't been for the stamping feet. Complete giveaway. He'd gotten Hannah's text, knew she was working the Nugget. He might've registered his friend earlier if it he wasn't preoccupied with the semblance of bacon on the menu.
A giant smile crossed his face. If he could've pushed aside the counter and hugged Hannah back, he surely would've. Instead...
Everyone froze. Thankfully the restaurant was in a lull; not too many people needed to be jostled with. "Come here!" Whistler exclaimed.
"Whoa!" Hannah looked around in amazement, and then annoyance. "Hey... how come I couldn't do that?!" It seemed there was no end to the injustices lavished upon the waitress during her stint as an Agent of the Powers That Be. It was almost enough to put Hannah off her hugging mood. Almost, but not quite. She scurried around the counter, being careful not to slip and bust her ass on the permanently slick floor. She gave Whistler a bear hug, really more of a 'cub' hug coming from her.
"Look at me! All alive and stuff! And look at you!" Hannah plucked the hat off his head and got onto her tiptoes. "All balding and stuff!" She slapped it back on him.
"Like I need to be reminded," he chuckled. The hair could be a sore spot; Rhiannon always got a pass because it was said with love. Hannah was just too cute not to enjoy the reverie. He'd returned the hug with gusto, almost lifting the short blonde off her feet. Given that they were close in height, and Hannah was what, 98 pounds soaking wet? Wasn't much of an effort. Still, he was glad for the display of affection.
"Everyone's different, Hann," the Agent offered. "Mostly because the Powers don't like giving out too much to any one person. It's more about the nature of the job you're drafted for." He held the girl's hand platonically. "Speaking of which..."
Brown eyes narrowed. "Speaking of which... what?" Oh, Jesus, he couldn't know, could he? Yes, of course he could know! Hannah recalled all the things she'd known as a Agent that nobody had to say first. Son of a... monkey-loving... crap! The waitress felt her face heat up and turn pink. Maybe she should've let him order the sausage after all. "You're not gonna ask me for a BJ, are you?" she accused, "Because I'll have you know, I am a ferocious shin-kicker, and I will do it and feel absolutely zero guilt afterwards, even when you're rolling all over the floor."
"What?" Whistler was taken aback. He wanted to ask about her time as an Agent, why she invoked the clause and instead... she's propositioning him? "What?!" He couldn't help but repeat himself. Hannah?! Sweet, innocent, tied-to-the-earth, bright spirit, Hannah, asking him if ...
"Oh gods no!" he sputtered. And his mind went there, for just an instant. The tiny blonde, on her knees, and... "Baseball!"
"What?" Hannah's nose wrinkled. "Sometimes you don't make sense. I was talking about Carrie, aka the newest Agent on the block, and what she served up hot and fresh for a living before switching places with me!" she whispered, even though the room was still stuck in place. "Sex acts!" The only emotion running stronger in Hannah than mortification was indignation. "I figured it was the talk of the town, with you Agent-types. Oh, ha-ha, stupid Hannah used the escape clause! Guess she got more than she bargained for!"
Before going back around the counter, Hannah stopped at a table, where an ornery customer was seated. Because she could, the waitress picked up a ketchup bottle, tapped it a few times, and squirted some in his lap. Then she returned to her post and waited for things to un-freeze. "You know," she went on, "I shoulda known there was a reason Carrie took me up on the offer so easily. I thought it was just the waitressing and being poor and the death of her daughter, but as it turns out, it was also the turning tricks and the STI. Thank the Lord I didn't have to take over her body."
Whistler blinked and allowed everyone to go about their lives unfettered, save for the ketchup-stained man who yelped and made a bee-line for the Washroom of the Damned. That. Wasn't going to be pretty.
"Fer the record, Miss Hannah," he whispered the final two words, "I had no clue. We don't keep tabs. Did you know what I was up to every moment of every day when you were off payin the ferryman?" He grabbed a napkin and dabbed his nose. There was a spot of blood. He wasn't as young as he used to be.
"And maybe you got dropped in some less than favorable hooker boots," oh that was a bad choice of words, "but that don't mean you can't ease out of it. Eventually."
"Don't you lecture me," she said, pointing her pencil at Whistler, who seemed unnaturally tweaked over the mention of a little oral sex. Like she'd suggested he have sex with a leper, or... or a twelve-year-old. "You know what," she said, thumping the note pad and nodding slowly. "I'm onto you. You weren't offended at the idea of paying for sex, which suggests you might've done it before... or at least considered it!" she rushed to amend. "You were offended at the thought of paying me. Well, Whistler, I'll have you know I give a damn fine BJ, so... how do you like them apples?"
To punctuate it, Hannah ripped the top page away (the one with the sausage warning), balled it up, and tossed it in a trash can. "Little Hannah grew up in the afterlife! I'm twenty-six years old, minus the two years I spent dead. I'm perfectly old enough to do the nasty. Just ask Oliver."
He honestly had no idea how they got into this line of conversation, and it didn't matter which way he went, he was gonna lose. So Whistler did what he does best.
He called Hannah's bluff.
"You got me, I've paid for it. You don't get to be my age without needing to give in once in a while." The Agent had a twinkle in his eye. Rhiannon knew it well. "How much then, for your menu?"
The waitress felt her mouth flap. "I... you..." Honestly, like she'd even know what to charge, if she were gonna take up Carrie's other line of work, which she would never! Besides, it wasn't like the woman left a price list on the fridge, next to the take-out Chinese coupons. Hannah put a hand on her hip. "You're only asking because you know I'd poke my eyeballs out with butter knives first." She exhaled heavily and attempted to change the subject. "I recommend the strawberry pancakes with a side of bacon and an egg over easy."
"Sounds good, and what I'm in the mood for." He winked at the blonde. "And I'll try not to take the eyeball thing as hurtful. At least too much of one."
Her time as an Agent hadn't dulled the woman at all, which was a pleasant surprise for Whistler. This particular line of work had a way of getting under your skin and jading your perspective forever. One of the few things that kept him from losing himself in the muck of the job was Rhiannon.
"No offense," she said, writing down her suggestion and turning to hang it for the cook. "I just didn't beat death to become a lady of the evening." A small, wooden stool was available for perching on, and Hannah pulled it up to the counter and sat across from Whistler. She put her hand in her chin. "So far? It's been kinda weird," she said. "Being back? I try not to think about dying and being an Agent. I just kinda..." She moistened her lips and zoned out on a salt shaker. "I kinda pretend it never happened, which is hard, because I'm not back in Searchlight in my trailer with my friends. I'm in Chicago, and I'm wearing another woman's clothes and living in her place, trying not to mention my old life to anybody Carrie knew, in case they notice a discrepancy. I keep getting lost on the way to the post office. It's cold here, and I miss my car, and all kinds of other things I didn't miss that much when I was dead. Being alive makes me miss them. Isn't that stupid?"
Whistler finally took a sip of his coffee. It wasn't terribly hot and it wasn't terribly drinkable, but that wasn't why he'd come to the Nugget. He kept his gaze on his friend. "Makes you human, Hann." His hand rested on the counter. "You were a part of something bigger for a while and it required you to concentrate on different things, and now you're back and you want what you lost. I can't blame ya for that. No one could. But just try to remember that you'll find new friends -- along with one from before, 'natch -- and you'll find your way to the post office and the temperature will eventually warm up."
She nodded, not willing to become glum about a second chance at living. It was all she'd wanted and now it was hers. The way she came by it was strange, but beggars couldn't be choosers. The new lease on life brought out Hannah's goofy side, but there were times in the silent apartment, in particular when she saw the closed door to little Natalie's bedroom, when what she'd begun to think of as Other Hannah came out... That more gentle, contemplative version of herself she'd been as an Agent, because it was necessary, always surrounded by the dead, dying, and grieving.
"I'm not sure what Oliver thinks," she said. "I was supposed to take his grandmother Amelia to the other side, but she held on a lot longer than we figured. I made arrangements for Carrie to do it. Anyway, Oliver's still in Maine," she went on, fidgeting with a packet of Sweet 'n Low. "Maybe he only wanted me when I was a spirit and perpetually out of reach. It's a great set-up for a commitment-phobe." Hannah shrugged and straightened. "But enough about me! What's up with you?"
The bell dinged behind her. She got Whistler's plate and set it on the counter.
He nodded as the food was placed in front of him. It looked edible, and Hannah was thoughtful enough to ensure the silverware was clean. "Contemplative, same as you," he offered. Whistler poured a bit of syrup over top of the strawberry pancakes before sliding his knife through. The bacon didn't look much better than its picture.
He was about to take a bite when he realized the ketchup-stained man hadn't returned from the bathroom. He'd give the poor bastard another five minutes. Maybe the man had passed out, or felt whatever Hannah'd abandoned to the fates was a better alternative to walking around with his embarrassment.
Oh god. He hoped the guy wasn't waiting for the blonde to come in and offer 'cleaning' services. Whistler chewed. It was the only thing he could do. "I'm a liaison with the United Nations now. And nah, it's nowhere near as glamorous as you'd think. Trust me. I actually prefer the perplexing orders of the Powers."
"Eeesh," she sympathized. In order to appear productive, she made a show of mopping the counter with a wet cloth. "What kinda stuff do they make you do?" She hadn't the first clue what a liaison of the UN did. "Are the jobs that bad or just confusing?" Perhaps they were issued in another language. Listening to higher beings 'talk' had often felt like translating from a language you barely knew, like that year when she'd gotten obsessed with foreign soap operas and learned broken bits of melodramatic Spanish. She couldn't ask for a restroom, but she knew how to accuse a man of sleeping with the maid.
One never knew. It could come in handy.
"Given that everyone knows about demons, some of 'em have got it in their heads to try and... smooth relations. Like they don't have enough problems dealing with humans that act worse than demons." That's why Whistler knew humanity wasn't ready for the shift in the world. They hadn't sorted out their own issues, and now they had 1,000 more. "So I'm kinda like a negotiator. Big or small. And if things get bad, I gotta decide what to do about it."
He took another few bites of his breakfast plate, subtly pushing the bacon aside. He finished the rest of the coffee and rested the cup on the counter. "Okay so, when can you extract yourself from this girl's life and live yer own?"
Hannah set the salt and pepper shakers down side by side. She began to prance them across the Formica like husband and bride cake-toppers. "Probably after I whittle down some of her debt," she said. "I looked through her bills and you wouldn't believe the credit cards. But since I don't have another mouth to feed, it'll be easier for me than her." It was too bad everything the blonde owned in Searchlight had been auctioned off or given to charity. There were a couple items of value that could've come in handy. "Last week I won $500 at BINGO. I used it to buy all new panties and to pay the outstanding balance on Carrie's rent and light bill."
The shakers clattered when she let go. "I know, spending 150 bucks at Victoria's Secret isn't fiscally responsible, but I can't wear somebody else's underwear!" she said, shaking her head. "T-shirts, jeans, okay, but that's where I draw the line. Maybe I'll get a second job."
"You really have grown up, haven't ya?" the hatted man teased. "Victoria's Secret? I remember a time when I was thinking -- or was I singing, I can't remember -- it was fuzzy then, about seeing London and France." He wished he could help Hannah through her predicament. He could find the odd job for Rhiannon -- oh shit, he chided himself, the Klan job -- but wasn't sure if he could do the same for the blonde.
"Still in touch with mother earth are ya?" If she was indeed back in her old body, there was a chance the Powers let Hannah keep that specialness about her as well.
Hannah hummed, "Mmmhmm! Watch this." Taking a plastic cup from the stack, she poured chilled water in it and set it before Whistler. Then, suspending her finger above it, she concentrated hard and made a stirring motion. Slowly the liquid began to swirl in circles. "I practice every day. I got kinda rusty. I wouldn't recommend pulling a lot of earth energy out of the ground here, though. It's polluted and afterwards, I coulda sworn my skin smelled like car exhaust. But that could be from riding the bus."
"I'll remember not to have any near-death experiences that require she-who-will-not-be-named to slip in something nasty that you have to pull out. Again." Whistler finished the egg, which was surprisingly over-easy as promised, then remembered.
"I never got to thank you properly for savin' my life, Hannah." He set the knife and fork down. "Sure it was part'a some stupid plan the Powers allowed so you'd jump on the team an' all, but it goes beyond that for me. You didn't have'ta."
Hannah's brain got scrambled, somewhere around 'slip in something nasty that you have to pull out'. Then, with an exclaimed, "Oh!" she caught up. Whistler was talking about Elfleda polluting his body, so she had gone and tried to cleanse it with elemental energy. It had taken too much out of her, hence the dying. The blonde waved a hand. "Hey, don't worry about it. You and me had each other's backs in Beowawe, didn't we? And you saved me at that Winter Solstice when the hellverse opened up above the Strip and tried to swallow the world whole. Consider us even-steven."
She shrugged.
Whistler'd finished the last of his food, hiding the bacon underneath the utensils, before responding. "Not my style, Pixie." He dabbed his chin with a napkin, completely missing a fleck of egg in the corner of his mouth. "'Cuz I'm the kinda guy that doesn't take friendship lightly, especially gestures like that. So consider us uneven-steven. Not that I'm gonna keep score, mind ya. But I'll be lookin' out for ya.
"And I promise not to be lookin' at your Victoria's Secret undergarments without permission." A wink.
"You sure?" Hannah lifted her smock and pivoted, as if Whistler could see through her pants. "They're extra cuu-uute! Pink with black polka dots!" Belatedly, she realized how it might appear to any onlookers: like the blonde-haired waitress was back in 'business', so to speak. She dropped the smock and rolled her eyes. "Even in my head, everything's a prostitute reference." Rather than handing him a check, she stuffed it in her pocket. "Dinner's on me. Promise you'll come back soon?"
There was an earnestness there that spoke to Hannah's need to reconnect with her old life. To still feel like 'Hannah' in the midst of a stranger's life.
"And it wasn't before?" Whistler jokingly mocked. "And ya know, I never imagined you wearin' a thong. Suits ya."
Whistler reached into his pocket and slipped a five dollar bill under the plate while he held Hannah's gaze; a small gesture, one he hoped she took the right way. "I'll be here weekly if ya won't get tired o' seein' me."
He stood, feeling slightly awkward. He wanted to hug his friend but others might get the wrong idea. "Oh, before I forget." The Agent took out a business card and scribbled on the back. "My number's there, but obviously you already have it. But the website on the back is somethin' you might wanna look at. There's a woman in town trackin' all the paranormal activities, and some of it's legit. Plus there's a forum for postin' and such. I haven't joined it yet, I'm whatchamacall... a lurker. But it's good to stay informed."
"Oooh!" Hannah picked up the card with the URL. As for him knowing she was wearing a thong (those undergarments she would've once termed 'butt-floss'), she put it down to a lack of pantylines. It was a lot better than thinking Whistler had x-ray vision. "I'll check it out. The computer's a dinosaur, but as long as I don't make it do two things at once, I can surf around." She took the tip, because practically speaking, she really needed it, and pressed a kiss onto her fingers. Hannah tapped his cheek. "See you next week, then, okay?"
Whistler tipped his hat, the most intimate of acts he could offer another short of an actual kiss. "Next week, Hannah. Count on it."
Whistler parked his car 'in the rear!' as instructed, locked it up tight (the neighborhood not exactly forgiving, his first impression) and finished his cigarette outside of the, ahem, family, restaurant. He double-checked his PDA to make sure he had the proper location. Somehow he'd hoped that, with Hannah's resurrection of sorts, the Powers That Be would've played a less cruel joke on the blonde pixie. She deserved a step up, not sideways into a joint that traded pies for pancakes.
He dropped the cigarette butt onto the concrete and scraped it along with the heel of his shoe. It was moderately warmer the past three days and most of the slush and snow had receded into the drain pipes. He checked the 'open' sign on the door (foolish really as the dingy restaurant was open 24 hours) and pushed inside the Golden Nugget Pancake House.
Golden Nugget? Apparently you could take the girl out of Las Vegas, but not vice versa.
The hatted man sat at the counter, picked up what looked like a recently wiped plastic-coated menu, and oggled the $7.99 special.
Hannah, otherwise known as 'Carrie' by the staff, was in the public bathroom. She wasn't using it. No power under the sun could make her do that. With hands on hips, she stared into the murky contents of the bowl. The toilet paper, water, and other substances combined to make it look like a sewage soup. Since the last attempt to plunge it, bubbles rose to the surface periodically, aiding the illusion. The plunger handle rested against the porcelain seat like a ladle. "Here goes nothing." Doing a precarious balance, she lifted her shoe and tapped the flusher.
Gurgle, gurgle... gurgle.
Wide-eyed, she watched as the water level began to rise. It spilled over the lip of the toilet and began to advance on the waitress. "Oh, hell no!" Abandoning the chore, Hannah hot-footed it out of the bathroom and went behind the counter. "Loretta!" She stuck her hands in the closest sink and scrubbed like a surgeon might. "The toilet's possessed! Since I'm not a priest, I think you better call somebody quick!" She flicked droplets from her fingers and dried them in a clean rag. Hannah turned around and flipped pages on her tiny note pad. "I sure hope you don't have to use the facilities," she advised her newest customer without looking up.
The Agent was a brave man; not the bravest, certainly, but he'd stared down his fair share of apocalypses in his long life. Most of the time he didn't wet his pants. But watching the waitress with the speed of a gazelle charge from the fright behind the communal bathroom, it caused him to slightly gulp. It didn't help that the woman claimed the porcelain product to be possessed.
It wouldn't have been the first time, either. After all, urban myths had to start somewhere...
"I think I can hold it," Whistler murmured, nose still stuck in the menu. Were the pictures real? Could bacon really look like that? He wondered if, should PETA ever stop in on their way to a march, they'd demand the images be burned. "As long as you promise the coffee won't go through me, I think we're fine."
"Heh!" Hand on the pot of caffeinated, Hannah could only wince and hope it didn't. "You can always use the ladies' if you need to. Or just go behind the dumpsters, like everybody else." The last sentence was mumbled, barely loud enough for the blonde to hear herself. She flipped a white mug and poured coffee to its brim. A little bowl of creamer was set beneath the menu. All Hannah could see was the tip of the customer's hat. She thought of the Nugget in Searchlight, and how Verlie would've knocked it off the poor guy's head for not having any home training.
"What'll it be? We've got a sausage platter on special. It comes with hash browns, eggs, fried apples and a biscuit." And possibly food poisoning. But she left that out, on account of last time. Half the counter had gotten up and left without paying their tickets, which meant no tips for Hannah, which meant no cash for bills.
Whistler struggled with the choice. His stomach demanded grease and pork, but his brain counter-measured with the thought of just what else people voided behind the dumpsters. She might've hoped her voice was low enough, and it would've been for a normal person, but he was far from normal. That the waitress even uttered the comment gave him hope for a tiny bit of honesty.
"Can ya vouch for the sausages," he asked politely, finally placing the menu down onto the counter.
"I can vouch for the sausages!" Hannah scribbled on her notepad and held it up. 'DON'T DO IT!'
As she lifted her eyes, she caught sight of her old friend and clamped her lips together to contain a squeal. It came out anyway. Speedily stamping her feet in excitement, she held her reaction in reasonable check, meaning she didn't jump over the counter and tackle him. But she did hoist herself up and give him a one-armed hug across it. "Whistler!" she hissed quietly. "Oh my gosh, am I glad to see you! Do you know, you're the first person I've seen since I got back?! I'd freak out all over the place, but I'm supposed to be in mourning!"
The tips of her shoes slip-slid on the tiles, so she released his neck and settled onto her feet.
There was a two-second delay in his reaction. The squeal caught him completely off-guard and surely the hug would've gotten him to back up if it hadn't been for the stamping feet. Complete giveaway. He'd gotten Hannah's text, knew she was working the Nugget. He might've registered his friend earlier if it he wasn't preoccupied with the semblance of bacon on the menu.
A giant smile crossed his face. If he could've pushed aside the counter and hugged Hannah back, he surely would've. Instead...
Everyone froze. Thankfully the restaurant was in a lull; not too many people needed to be jostled with. "Come here!" Whistler exclaimed.
"Whoa!" Hannah looked around in amazement, and then annoyance. "Hey... how come I couldn't do that?!" It seemed there was no end to the injustices lavished upon the waitress during her stint as an Agent of the Powers That Be. It was almost enough to put Hannah off her hugging mood. Almost, but not quite. She scurried around the counter, being careful not to slip and bust her ass on the permanently slick floor. She gave Whistler a bear hug, really more of a 'cub' hug coming from her.
"Look at me! All alive and stuff! And look at you!" Hannah plucked the hat off his head and got onto her tiptoes. "All balding and stuff!" She slapped it back on him.
"Like I need to be reminded," he chuckled. The hair could be a sore spot; Rhiannon always got a pass because it was said with love. Hannah was just too cute not to enjoy the reverie. He'd returned the hug with gusto, almost lifting the short blonde off her feet. Given that they were close in height, and Hannah was what, 98 pounds soaking wet? Wasn't much of an effort. Still, he was glad for the display of affection.
"Everyone's different, Hann," the Agent offered. "Mostly because the Powers don't like giving out too much to any one person. It's more about the nature of the job you're drafted for." He held the girl's hand platonically. "Speaking of which..."
Brown eyes narrowed. "Speaking of which... what?" Oh, Jesus, he couldn't know, could he? Yes, of course he could know! Hannah recalled all the things she'd known as a Agent that nobody had to say first. Son of a... monkey-loving... crap! The waitress felt her face heat up and turn pink. Maybe she should've let him order the sausage after all. "You're not gonna ask me for a BJ, are you?" she accused, "Because I'll have you know, I am a ferocious shin-kicker, and I will do it and feel absolutely zero guilt afterwards, even when you're rolling all over the floor."
"What?" Whistler was taken aback. He wanted to ask about her time as an Agent, why she invoked the clause and instead... she's propositioning him? "What?!" He couldn't help but repeat himself. Hannah?! Sweet, innocent, tied-to-the-earth, bright spirit, Hannah, asking him if ...
"Oh gods no!" he sputtered. And his mind went there, for just an instant. The tiny blonde, on her knees, and... "Baseball!"
"What?" Hannah's nose wrinkled. "Sometimes you don't make sense. I was talking about Carrie, aka the newest Agent on the block, and what she served up hot and fresh for a living before switching places with me!" she whispered, even though the room was still stuck in place. "Sex acts!" The only emotion running stronger in Hannah than mortification was indignation. "I figured it was the talk of the town, with you Agent-types. Oh, ha-ha, stupid Hannah used the escape clause! Guess she got more than she bargained for!"
Before going back around the counter, Hannah stopped at a table, where an ornery customer was seated. Because she could, the waitress picked up a ketchup bottle, tapped it a few times, and squirted some in his lap. Then she returned to her post and waited for things to un-freeze. "You know," she went on, "I shoulda known there was a reason Carrie took me up on the offer so easily. I thought it was just the waitressing and being poor and the death of her daughter, but as it turns out, it was also the turning tricks and the STI. Thank the Lord I didn't have to take over her body."
Whistler blinked and allowed everyone to go about their lives unfettered, save for the ketchup-stained man who yelped and made a bee-line for the Washroom of the Damned. That. Wasn't going to be pretty.
"Fer the record, Miss Hannah," he whispered the final two words, "I had no clue. We don't keep tabs. Did you know what I was up to every moment of every day when you were off payin the ferryman?" He grabbed a napkin and dabbed his nose. There was a spot of blood. He wasn't as young as he used to be.
"And maybe you got dropped in some less than favorable hooker boots," oh that was a bad choice of words, "but that don't mean you can't ease out of it. Eventually."
"Don't you lecture me," she said, pointing her pencil at Whistler, who seemed unnaturally tweaked over the mention of a little oral sex. Like she'd suggested he have sex with a leper, or... or a twelve-year-old. "You know what," she said, thumping the note pad and nodding slowly. "I'm onto you. You weren't offended at the idea of paying for sex, which suggests you might've done it before... or at least considered it!" she rushed to amend. "You were offended at the thought of paying me. Well, Whistler, I'll have you know I give a damn fine BJ, so... how do you like them apples?"
To punctuate it, Hannah ripped the top page away (the one with the sausage warning), balled it up, and tossed it in a trash can. "Little Hannah grew up in the afterlife! I'm twenty-six years old, minus the two years I spent dead. I'm perfectly old enough to do the nasty. Just ask Oliver."
He honestly had no idea how they got into this line of conversation, and it didn't matter which way he went, he was gonna lose. So Whistler did what he does best.
He called Hannah's bluff.
"You got me, I've paid for it. You don't get to be my age without needing to give in once in a while." The Agent had a twinkle in his eye. Rhiannon knew it well. "How much then, for your menu?"
The waitress felt her mouth flap. "I... you..." Honestly, like she'd even know what to charge, if she were gonna take up Carrie's other line of work, which she would never! Besides, it wasn't like the woman left a price list on the fridge, next to the take-out Chinese coupons. Hannah put a hand on her hip. "You're only asking because you know I'd poke my eyeballs out with butter knives first." She exhaled heavily and attempted to change the subject. "I recommend the strawberry pancakes with a side of bacon and an egg over easy."
"Sounds good, and what I'm in the mood for." He winked at the blonde. "And I'll try not to take the eyeball thing as hurtful. At least too much of one."
Her time as an Agent hadn't dulled the woman at all, which was a pleasant surprise for Whistler. This particular line of work had a way of getting under your skin and jading your perspective forever. One of the few things that kept him from losing himself in the muck of the job was Rhiannon.
"No offense," she said, writing down her suggestion and turning to hang it for the cook. "I just didn't beat death to become a lady of the evening." A small, wooden stool was available for perching on, and Hannah pulled it up to the counter and sat across from Whistler. She put her hand in her chin. "So far? It's been kinda weird," she said. "Being back? I try not to think about dying and being an Agent. I just kinda..." She moistened her lips and zoned out on a salt shaker. "I kinda pretend it never happened, which is hard, because I'm not back in Searchlight in my trailer with my friends. I'm in Chicago, and I'm wearing another woman's clothes and living in her place, trying not to mention my old life to anybody Carrie knew, in case they notice a discrepancy. I keep getting lost on the way to the post office. It's cold here, and I miss my car, and all kinds of other things I didn't miss that much when I was dead. Being alive makes me miss them. Isn't that stupid?"
Whistler finally took a sip of his coffee. It wasn't terribly hot and it wasn't terribly drinkable, but that wasn't why he'd come to the Nugget. He kept his gaze on his friend. "Makes you human, Hann." His hand rested on the counter. "You were a part of something bigger for a while and it required you to concentrate on different things, and now you're back and you want what you lost. I can't blame ya for that. No one could. But just try to remember that you'll find new friends -- along with one from before, 'natch -- and you'll find your way to the post office and the temperature will eventually warm up."
She nodded, not willing to become glum about a second chance at living. It was all she'd wanted and now it was hers. The way she came by it was strange, but beggars couldn't be choosers. The new lease on life brought out Hannah's goofy side, but there were times in the silent apartment, in particular when she saw the closed door to little Natalie's bedroom, when what she'd begun to think of as Other Hannah came out... That more gentle, contemplative version of herself she'd been as an Agent, because it was necessary, always surrounded by the dead, dying, and grieving.
"I'm not sure what Oliver thinks," she said. "I was supposed to take his grandmother Amelia to the other side, but she held on a lot longer than we figured. I made arrangements for Carrie to do it. Anyway, Oliver's still in Maine," she went on, fidgeting with a packet of Sweet 'n Low. "Maybe he only wanted me when I was a spirit and perpetually out of reach. It's a great set-up for a commitment-phobe." Hannah shrugged and straightened. "But enough about me! What's up with you?"
The bell dinged behind her. She got Whistler's plate and set it on the counter.
He nodded as the food was placed in front of him. It looked edible, and Hannah was thoughtful enough to ensure the silverware was clean. "Contemplative, same as you," he offered. Whistler poured a bit of syrup over top of the strawberry pancakes before sliding his knife through. The bacon didn't look much better than its picture.
He was about to take a bite when he realized the ketchup-stained man hadn't returned from the bathroom. He'd give the poor bastard another five minutes. Maybe the man had passed out, or felt whatever Hannah'd abandoned to the fates was a better alternative to walking around with his embarrassment.
Oh god. He hoped the guy wasn't waiting for the blonde to come in and offer 'cleaning' services. Whistler chewed. It was the only thing he could do. "I'm a liaison with the United Nations now. And nah, it's nowhere near as glamorous as you'd think. Trust me. I actually prefer the perplexing orders of the Powers."
"Eeesh," she sympathized. In order to appear productive, she made a show of mopping the counter with a wet cloth. "What kinda stuff do they make you do?" She hadn't the first clue what a liaison of the UN did. "Are the jobs that bad or just confusing?" Perhaps they were issued in another language. Listening to higher beings 'talk' had often felt like translating from a language you barely knew, like that year when she'd gotten obsessed with foreign soap operas and learned broken bits of melodramatic Spanish. She couldn't ask for a restroom, but she knew how to accuse a man of sleeping with the maid.
One never knew. It could come in handy.
"Given that everyone knows about demons, some of 'em have got it in their heads to try and... smooth relations. Like they don't have enough problems dealing with humans that act worse than demons." That's why Whistler knew humanity wasn't ready for the shift in the world. They hadn't sorted out their own issues, and now they had 1,000 more. "So I'm kinda like a negotiator. Big or small. And if things get bad, I gotta decide what to do about it."
He took another few bites of his breakfast plate, subtly pushing the bacon aside. He finished the rest of the coffee and rested the cup on the counter. "Okay so, when can you extract yourself from this girl's life and live yer own?"
Hannah set the salt and pepper shakers down side by side. She began to prance them across the Formica like husband and bride cake-toppers. "Probably after I whittle down some of her debt," she said. "I looked through her bills and you wouldn't believe the credit cards. But since I don't have another mouth to feed, it'll be easier for me than her." It was too bad everything the blonde owned in Searchlight had been auctioned off or given to charity. There were a couple items of value that could've come in handy. "Last week I won $500 at BINGO. I used it to buy all new panties and to pay the outstanding balance on Carrie's rent and light bill."
The shakers clattered when she let go. "I know, spending 150 bucks at Victoria's Secret isn't fiscally responsible, but I can't wear somebody else's underwear!" she said, shaking her head. "T-shirts, jeans, okay, but that's where I draw the line. Maybe I'll get a second job."
"You really have grown up, haven't ya?" the hatted man teased. "Victoria's Secret? I remember a time when I was thinking -- or was I singing, I can't remember -- it was fuzzy then, about seeing London and France." He wished he could help Hannah through her predicament. He could find the odd job for Rhiannon -- oh shit, he chided himself, the Klan job -- but wasn't sure if he could do the same for the blonde.
"Still in touch with mother earth are ya?" If she was indeed back in her old body, there was a chance the Powers let Hannah keep that specialness about her as well.
Hannah hummed, "Mmmhmm! Watch this." Taking a plastic cup from the stack, she poured chilled water in it and set it before Whistler. Then, suspending her finger above it, she concentrated hard and made a stirring motion. Slowly the liquid began to swirl in circles. "I practice every day. I got kinda rusty. I wouldn't recommend pulling a lot of earth energy out of the ground here, though. It's polluted and afterwards, I coulda sworn my skin smelled like car exhaust. But that could be from riding the bus."
"I'll remember not to have any near-death experiences that require she-who-will-not-be-named to slip in something nasty that you have to pull out. Again." Whistler finished the egg, which was surprisingly over-easy as promised, then remembered.
"I never got to thank you properly for savin' my life, Hannah." He set the knife and fork down. "Sure it was part'a some stupid plan the Powers allowed so you'd jump on the team an' all, but it goes beyond that for me. You didn't have'ta."
Hannah's brain got scrambled, somewhere around 'slip in something nasty that you have to pull out'. Then, with an exclaimed, "Oh!" she caught up. Whistler was talking about Elfleda polluting his body, so she had gone and tried to cleanse it with elemental energy. It had taken too much out of her, hence the dying. The blonde waved a hand. "Hey, don't worry about it. You and me had each other's backs in Beowawe, didn't we? And you saved me at that Winter Solstice when the hellverse opened up above the Strip and tried to swallow the world whole. Consider us even-steven."
She shrugged.
Whistler'd finished the last of his food, hiding the bacon underneath the utensils, before responding. "Not my style, Pixie." He dabbed his chin with a napkin, completely missing a fleck of egg in the corner of his mouth. "'Cuz I'm the kinda guy that doesn't take friendship lightly, especially gestures like that. So consider us uneven-steven. Not that I'm gonna keep score, mind ya. But I'll be lookin' out for ya.
"And I promise not to be lookin' at your Victoria's Secret undergarments without permission." A wink.
"You sure?" Hannah lifted her smock and pivoted, as if Whistler could see through her pants. "They're extra cuu-uute! Pink with black polka dots!" Belatedly, she realized how it might appear to any onlookers: like the blonde-haired waitress was back in 'business', so to speak. She dropped the smock and rolled her eyes. "Even in my head, everything's a prostitute reference." Rather than handing him a check, she stuffed it in her pocket. "Dinner's on me. Promise you'll come back soon?"
There was an earnestness there that spoke to Hannah's need to reconnect with her old life. To still feel like 'Hannah' in the midst of a stranger's life.
"And it wasn't before?" Whistler jokingly mocked. "And ya know, I never imagined you wearin' a thong. Suits ya."
Whistler reached into his pocket and slipped a five dollar bill under the plate while he held Hannah's gaze; a small gesture, one he hoped she took the right way. "I'll be here weekly if ya won't get tired o' seein' me."
He stood, feeling slightly awkward. He wanted to hug his friend but others might get the wrong idea. "Oh, before I forget." The Agent took out a business card and scribbled on the back. "My number's there, but obviously you already have it. But the website on the back is somethin' you might wanna look at. There's a woman in town trackin' all the paranormal activities, and some of it's legit. Plus there's a forum for postin' and such. I haven't joined it yet, I'm whatchamacall... a lurker. But it's good to stay informed."
"Oooh!" Hannah picked up the card with the URL. As for him knowing she was wearing a thong (those undergarments she would've once termed 'butt-floss'), she put it down to a lack of pantylines. It was a lot better than thinking Whistler had x-ray vision. "I'll check it out. The computer's a dinosaur, but as long as I don't make it do two things at once, I can surf around." She took the tip, because practically speaking, she really needed it, and pressed a kiss onto her fingers. Hannah tapped his cheek. "See you next week, then, okay?"
Whistler tipped his hat, the most intimate of acts he could offer another short of an actual kiss. "Next week, Hannah. Count on it."