whirlybirds [phone guy / purple guy]

Chapter One

6:25 a.m.-Tuesday.

He awkwardly taps his foot against grimy tile. Vincent stretches his arms above his head and yawns.

''And you've been doing this how long?'' Another attempt at small talk. (He did it all through night shift, and Scott actually started to answer him for a few minutes before the building creaked and panic shot through him like lightning in his nerves.) Scott draws in a shaky breath, trying to will away the nausea rolling around in his stomach.

''Two years.'' Scott glances at the man, who looks back at him, right in the eyes. It's painfully tense, and it stops, shatters like fragile glass when Vincent pushes the cheap swivel chair across the floor so that he's close to him. The arms of their respective chairs bump together with a thump. Vincent smiles at him.

''Guess you've gotten pretty good at this? Employees kind of come-and-go after a while.'' His tone is casual, his posture is open and inviting.

And yet he doesn't like this. The proximity, the closeness, how Vincent won't stop trying to talk to him, and Scott knows he's just trying to be friendly, but that almost makes him mad. Can you not take a hint? He thinks. I just want to do my job. Everything is tight inside his head, and his nerves are snapping. He just wants to go home.

''So,'' Scott rubs at the back of his neck. ''I think we can do the regular training tomorrow, and Boss' called the technician in so you can finish that before I get back.'' Vincent stands up, pushes the chair back into place under the chair. He knocks the ever-present empty soda cup into the plastic trash-bin, and pulls his coat off the chair. ''Okay. See you tonight, then, Scott Markey.'' He grins at him as he heads out of the office, and a moment passes before he pokes his head back around the frame.

''Uh, where do I meet this technician?'' He smiles sheepishly.

''Oh,'' Scott says. ''Go past Boss' office, and it's four doors down from the storage closet. There'll be a sign on the door-'parts and service'. Can't miss it.'' He makes vague hand gestures. Vincent smiles again-all that smiling must hurt his face-and disappears with the sound of footsteps. He pulls his coat off the other chair, shoving it with his foot back into place.

Scott zips his own jacket up to his throat, ignoring the scratch of the metal. It's in the low fifties this morning, and he'd rather not get hypothermia. It's five or so miles from his apartment to work, and he's got to walk them; he can't afford a car, and the bus doesn't run this early. Usually takes a bit under an hour.

His breath comes out in opaque clouds as he walks home, and the cold seeps through his clothes. Scott's fingers are alarmingly numb when he fumbles with his keys;the kind of cold-numb that almost makes you feel warm. Heated, blessed air washes over him when he opens his door, and he eagerly tosses his keys on the coffee table and starts to shuck his layers of outerwear, shoes, and socks. Changes into sweatpants and an old, soft grey t-shirt and crawls into bed, curling up to get warm, pulling the oversized comforter around him, breathing hot air into his ice-cold hands until he falls asleep.

He wakes up at 2:47 P.M-four hours before his shift starts. He should probably go back to sleep, get those extra two or three hours, but now he can't-he's always been horrible at going back to sleep after waking up.

The carpet of his apartment is soft under his feet, and he rubs at his chilly arms, now erupting in goosepimples. He turns the thermostat up two degrees as he waits for the coffeemaker to finish brewing, then puts his uniform in the washer along with a load of regular clothes. He's just finished closing the washer lid when he hears the coffeemaker bleat, and pours a practically scalding mug full, burning his tongue on the first sip. Scott settles in his favorite nook of the couch to drink it. Once he's done with that cup, he drinks another because he's going to be up all night.