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WHO: Pete Cheney and Carlton Lassiter
WHERE: The Police Station.
WHEN: Sunday night.
WARNINGS: There may be giant moths.
SUMMARY: Something is still eating at Pete. Usually it's the other way around.
FORMAT: Whatever comes out okay?

The city is damp and salty. It's dark by 4pm. The cold inches inside everyone's clothes and leaves everyone unlucky enough to be out in it with runny eyes and noses, and chapped red cheeks.

Inside the police station it's warm and bright. It smells like coffee and cigarettes and sometimes: cleaning products. It's never quiet, but it is 'quiet' tonight.

Pete glares at the coffee machine. It's dispensing that weak fruity crap again. How is he supposed to get anything done?

He switches the battery in his mouth to his other cheek. They are the only thing keeping
his diet going (and he has yet to see any results). He's had better luck sticking with the new wardrobe, even if button-down shirts still feel simultaneously dull and silly. In Neopolis, almost everybody wears spandex. Pete never went that far, but fitting in has always been important to him, so when putting together his A.E.'s uniform, it's really no wonder things got a little over-done. For all its tackiness, the orange tracksuit fit in just fine back home.

It doesn't fly here. Here drab collared shirts and slacks are the uniform. It's what it takes to feel normal (which is a word Pete doesn't like very much). He's taken to wearing a shoulder holster too, because it looks more...police. His is loaded with a spare headset, which is only smart in this weather. He's not sure if this is just wishful thinking or not, but it seems like his headset gets fewer side-long looks than it did months ago. People on the street know at least one of the officers comes with rabbit ears. He's not sure if they know he's The Captain (although he feels they should). But the liberal media isn't really interested in news like that. They might be interested in promotions following the use of lethal force during under-age hostage situations, but that's...something.

That's different.

She's still eating at him.

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Lassiter had been doing the tediously important task of paper work all day, trying to catch up on backlogs that he let fester as he rather did other things like investigate this or that or patrol around in case anyone acted up. Many people thought he loved doing paperwork, and while he didn't abhor it, there was always something else he wanted to do instead. Action was nice. Any chance to shoot was better. Explosions were neat. But he had to stop and spend some days behind his desk, trying to catch up everything he let linger.

He decided he needed more coffee and headed over to the little set up. He saw Pete there, still in his new wardrobe which Lassiter was slowly getting used to but for some reason he always saw the white shirt as shockingly orange. It was like Spencer at that obnoxious green color he loved, some people just were those colors. Lassiter liked the lack of costume if just for the fact he's a close-minded jerk that would rather them to look uniform, but Pete never really looked happy in it. Of course, he rarely looked happy.

But at that moment he seemed particularly frowny. Generally, Lassiter would avoid people that looked like they needed someone to talk to, but Cheney was there and he really needed a distraction from the paperwork if for five minutes. Maybe it was something Lassiter had wise words in. Well, either way, he opened on a safe evasive note:

"Cheney," he greeted picking up the pot and pouring himself coffee, "Terrible coffee, huh?" He actually loved it, but no one needed to know his shame.

Pete just has a naturally unhappy face. Some people look better when they smile. He isn't one of them.

But Lassiter may or may not be pleased to know that he is one of the reasons Pete has kept the look; Lassiter carries it off so well, after all. And Pete does look up to him. It wouldn't hurt to be a bit more alike.

"It's like drinkin' flowers," Pete grumbles. He spits his battery into the trash. "If I wanted to drink flowers I'd...do that. Although why anybody'd wanna do that ain't...I'm sayin' I don't get it, go it?"

Seriously, Pete needs his caffeine.

He would definitely be flattered if he knew this. He's always wanted a new protege since his junior partner all grew up, as it were.

He grimaced as the spit-clinging battery was hurled into the trash. "Drinking flowers is how I see tea . . ." He trailed off, his mind finally catching up with the fact he saw a man spit out a battery like a wad of gum. "What the hell was that? Do you routinely eat batteries?"

Edited 2010-01-04 03:08 (UTC)

"Tea don't even count," Pete insists.

Tea is for grandmas and English folks. Tea is just milk somebody spilled something in. Tea is about as useless as water.

"Yeah? And?"

He folds his arms and tries to stare Lassiter down. It's no big deal. It's only a big deal if he says it's a big deal.

"...It helps take the edge off," he grudgingly allows.

"It's just gross is all," he answered honestly. "But I guess it could be worse, like if you were spitting sunflower seed shells all around."

His head tilted a little at his excuse. "The edge? Is it that diet Sally's trying to get you to stick to?" He rolled his eyes and dug into his pants pocket, pulling out an open bag of M&Ms that he had bought from a vending machine some hours ago. "I ate half of them and they're kind of . . . melty, but it's probably better than sucking a filthy battery." Bless Lassiter, he's trying to be kind as much as he can be. He isn't against Pete getting himself more into shape, but things like strict diets always seemed more harmful than good. Especially for people in a stressful job like theirs where a little indulgence can make wonders.

Pete is looking at the bag of M&Ms like they're a bag of beautiful woman. Possibly beautiful women.

"There's nothin' filthy about 'em. Package is sealed," he argues.

He doesn't buy single hits off the street like some bum; he gets his fix at Duane Reade.

He snatches the brown and white bag and starts fishing the candies out.

"Right. Diet."

It's not the diet. He's been zapping for years.

His lips pursed for a moment, and he shrugged, "To each their own, I guess. I used to chew my fingernails." He still thought sucking batteries was much grosser, though, but somehow he's learned to keep such words in check around Pete.

He was a little amused at how the man attacked the bag of candy, but his tone suggested it was more than just lack of anything other than carrot sticks in his system making him moodier than usual lately. He had two options, either to run and hide behind his fortress of paper or actually try to be an attentive listener. Well, Cheney WAS a friend, right? And he got him that weird horn gun rack that actually works wonders in his Civil War room, so Lassiter really ought to extend effort, right?

"Uhh," he began awkwardly, waving the coffee cup aimlessly in small circles for a minute, trying to get over his initial aversion he usually had when asking someone if they were having personal problems, "something else eating you, Pete? I thought those M&Ms would cheer you right up."

Pete eyes Lassiter's fingernails critically. Then he watches Lassiter's coffee cup circle in mid-air.

He crumples the now empty candy wrapper and tosses it into the trashcan along with his spent battery.

"I got stuff goin' on in my life that ain't about food y'know," Pete grumbles.

Lassiter paused to try to think what else would possibly be going on in Cheney's life. What did he know about his type of folks? Uh. "You . . . couldn't get a ticket to the monster truck rally? . . ." Yeah, he really isn't good with people.

Pete just stares. Then he sighs.

"Carlton, we're in the middle of a damn city. Where the hell would they have a monster truck rally?"

Where, I ask you?

"It's that girl, okay?" He mutters.

At this City's equivalent of Madison Square Gardens, Pete. Maybe one day someone will take you to one.

Meanwhile, Lassiter had to pause to think of who "that girl" could be. Did Pete like someone in the office and it was getting him down? Nah, he was the type to be more obvious about something like that. Did he have an illegitimate--no, that's even more ridiculous.

Wait.

He inhaled, feeling very awkward for a moment, then let out an eloquent, "Oh. Her. I see."

That would certainly be some date. Whoever took him would surely get some that night.

"I keep thinkin' about her," he mutters.

She and Shirley are starting to clutter up that area above his neck.

Okay, nevermind, Lassiter isn't going to buy him a ticket when it rolls around.

Lassiter sighed heavily. While he certainly never . . . shot anyone younger than 19ish, he could understand how unbearable it would be on someone. "You know, you had to do what you had to. She wasn't right." He sounded gruff, but it was that sort of compassionate gruff. Almost fatherly.

Aw. :(

"I just wanna forget about it," Pete groans. "But I can't."

She's there: in his head. He could draw her face from memory. Only his memory isn't so right anymore, and in it: she doesn't look crazed like she did; she looks frightened. He has to keep reminding himself that she shot him. It doesn't help that there's no scar.

Maybe if he's a good boy.

Lassiter did the unusual thing and stepped forward to pat Pete solidly on the back. Maybe a little too stiff, and his body too rigid, but he was genuinely trying. "I wish I could help more. I guess, uhh . . . you want to talk to someone? Like, you know, a professional?" Lassiter's lip curled up a little at that. Despite the fact his last visit with one wasn't all that bad (though he wasn't about to acknowledge it since it was Spencer's mother he had spoken to), he didn't hold them in very high regard. But maybe someone like that was something Pete needed. "I don't know if the department here even has a set one, but . . . I'd help you look into it?"

Pete looks slightly confused about why he's being hit.

"I dunno," he sighs. "I just dunno anymore. They made me see one once, back home? Guy was a tool. An' this was a guy used to folks with powers. There's no way any a those regular schmoes could understand an' I ain't payin' them to waste my time explainin' how it is."

"Maybe one of the imports here are psychiatrists, too, maybe they can relate better?" He shrugged and rubbed his neck awkwardly. "It's better than trying to forget what happened with alcohol......or batteries, I guess."

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