whirlybirds [phone guy / purple guy]

Chapter Two

Wednesday-6:47 a.m.

''It just occurred to me that doing night shift is almost kind of redundant. I mean, nothing ever happens. We just sit here for six hours.'' Vincent's twirling a key ring around his index finger, one arm slung across the back of the chair. His feet are propped up on the desk, which he's not really supposed to do, but does anyway. He's going to scuff up the desk if he keeps it up. Scott carefully taps his foot in a steady staccato beat. ''I think...'' He starts, then falters. ''I think it's just... extra precaution. In case something did happen. Which it could.'' Scott laces his fingers over his stomach and Vincent nods, tipping the chair back a bit. Scott uncrosses his legs and stands up. Blood rushes to his fallen-asleep legs and they prickle with pins-and-needles. He pulls his coat on, and zips it up to his throat. Vincent unfurls himself from the chair. ''Oh, wait. I wanted to ask,'' He steps an inch closer; he's dangerously close to entering Scott's personal-space boundaries. ''there's a little place that's got great breakfast. Was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite.'' For a moment he thinks oh, God, how do I say no without offending him, then his stomach thinks, how do you say yes without looking like an overeager dork?

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The 'little place' actually is pretty little. It's off in a small, secluded cluster of local businesses, set away from all the bustle and noise. Everyone seems polite and quaint-not once does someone bump into him with a gruff 'get out of my way' or randomly honk their car horn. It's called Miranda's, and the minute they step inside, warm air thick with the smell of food hits him, and his stomach starts shrieking. Vincent waves at a full-figured woman with sleek black hair in a bob and a white knee-length dress, who turns to them. She glides toward them, her shoulders back, chest pushed out. The kind of person who just oozes that unshakable confidence, that comfort with their body and mind. With her thick, curved hips, her plump legs and belly and arms, she holds herself like she's the size every woman hopes to attain.

And she's pulling a pencil from behind her ear, sliding a small notepad from her apron pocket. ''Can I get you two something to drink?'' Scott orders water with a lemon; Vincent gets tea.

''Not trying to influence you here, but the Michigan will blow your mind. It's got these great scrambled eggs with these little toast crumb thingies, and the hash browns are the best.'' Vincent grins and traces a finger in circles along a line of neat, straight print on the menu. Scott swallows, watching the shadows of Vincent's hand dance. ''The owner's two daughters apparently made it up.'' He licks the roof of his mouth, a familiar habit from when he was little. ''Not really a hash brown person, but sure, okay.'' He chuckles awkwardly, and slides the menu across the small table into Vincent's hands. ''How are you not a hash brown person?'' Vincent frowns. ''Not liking hash browns is like not liking...puppies. Or substantial salary raises.'' Scott cracks a small smile and snorts. ''No. Puppies are-well, puppies, and I think everyone could get behind a raise. Hash browns are just food.'' Vincent rolls his eyes. ''Anyways, it's actually a pretty big dish; I've had it before. We could split, if you don't mind. I can eat your hash browns if you don't want them.'' Okay, thinks Scott. It's going to save money. Plus, I probably couldn't even eat all that anyway. ''Alright. Sounds good to me.''

Vincent manages to wave down the waitress again, and she scribbles it down into her tiny notepad, leaning a hip against the table. She smiles, showing off-white teeth. The front two have a gap. Her cheeks are round and ruddy, her lips full and painted a warm red color, and a bit of her lipstick is smudged on her teeth. ''I'll get that to you two in maybe fifteen.'' She gestures to their almost-empty glasses. ''Refills?''

They chat aimlessly, in circles, and it feels good-it's not too loud or boisterous or heated. Vincent seems to have picked up on the fact that he likes quieter conversations. They briefly discuss work, the animatronics' conditions. ''I really wish he'd invest more in the quality of the company, hire a bigger staff, but I think his pride gets in the way. Way before I even worked there, he could manage to keep it in great shape with an even smaller staff than we have now. Kids are just rowdier and messier now, and we've got way more customers to clean up after. The janitor's really overworked. He never lets on though; poor guy really takes the job to heart.'' Scott wrings his lemon over the glass and a seed slides out, clinking against the ice before sinking toward the bottom of the cup. ''Is he the middle-aged redhead in the Aerosmith sweatshirt?'' Scott nods. ''Mm-hmm. His name's Don.'' He's been there longer than Scott has, and always hums as he cleans (probably Aerosmith songs) Short and stocky, Don has a head of thick, short coppery hair, and dark green eyes. A friendly, gregarious guy, he was funny and goofy, usually joking about how he was going to one day marry his bulldog Meryl.

He's jarred out of his thoughts when plates are set down in front of him, taking up all of the table space. They're ivory-colored and thick and heavy, with fluffy-looking scrambled eggs, sprinkled with 'little toast crumb thingies', piled across half the plate. A pair of fat strips of bacon are laid across the opposite side, and the hash browns look insanely good, scraped into the center, but not touching. (Nobody likes it when their food touches other food on the plate. It's just...weird, honestly.) It takes a moment to unwrap the utensils from the napkin bundle, then he starts eating.

The food is really good, everything on said plate coming together perfectly. Vincent chuckles at him over his raised tea glass as Scott wolfs it down like he hasn't eaten in days, despite the fact that he did have something to eat before coming here. (If you count two tangerines.) He hasn't had food this good in a while; he never eats out, and he has a small stomach, so everything he eats is usually small. Usually a bowl of canned soup or a sandwich, maybe a frozen pizza on occasion if he's feeling adventurous. The less money he has to spend on groceries, the better.

But good God, apparently he's an absolute idiot.

Vincent is giving him cautious glances between looking around the diner and eating his own half of the food. He's staring at him like he's either really confused or really surprised. ''News flash,'' he starts when Scott stops eating to go for a sip of his water, ''human beings need to eat.'' The glass is damp with condensation in his fingers, and he dries his hands with a green cloth napkin as he says, ''I never eat out, so this is kind of a novelty.'' Vincent nods slowly. ''Well, at least sit up; you'll make yourself miserable if you eat hunched over like that.'' Scott flushes as he realizes he probably looks ridiculous. He straightens his back up, uncrosses his legs. Vincent chuckles. ''Think you broke a world record for speed eating.'' Scott's plate is empty, the only remnants of the food being a few stray crumbs. Vincent pushes his water glass out of the way to start scraping the rest of his own food onto Scott's plate with his fork. ''Hey, that's yours!'' He swats at Vincent's hand. ''You need it more than I do, string bean.'' Vincent rolls his eyes, and scrapes more hash browns onto Scott's plate.