Mr. Wuornos, she calls him, and it's another nail in the coffin of not-quite-right.
Nobody calls him that. He's been Nathan to everyone in town since he was a boy; he'll be Nathan til the day he dies. Haven doesn't put a lot of heft in titles, witnesses and suspects are just as likely as Mrs. Miller down the street to call him by his given name instead of Detective.
But nobody ever calls him mister.
He doesn't correct her, though. His eyes are caught on something other than the two drinks sitting on the polished bartop: a little square-cut glass of toothpicks, one of several he can see space more or less evenly down the bar. For when patrons get their end-of-the-universe popcorn stuck in their teeth, he guesses, but he reaches out to tug one loose, even as he shakes his head slightly at her question. "Not much of a drinker."
Definitely not right this second, surrounded by the odd and the impossible, with Parker's materialized dirty martini staring him in the face. Not until he knows.
There's magic here. Maybe. Of some kind that might be different from whatever's in Haven, and, anyway, if Miss Kate Barlow is right, they aren't really in Haven anymore. Maybe aren't even in their own world, anymore, and before anything else happens, he's got something to try. Closes his fingers in a fist around the toothpick, leaves one end just slightly sticking out.
And then he presses the pad of his thumb down into it, as hard as he can, while looking back up at the two women. "Beer's fine."
It looks just like he's making a fist. Squeezing a hand at his side. Nothing to concern themselves with, unless something happens, but --
Nothing does. He presses harder. Nothing.
There's no disappointment that shows, no flicker of anything. He just pushes the toothpick into his jeans pocket like that was his plan all along, and shrugs, mouth twisting into a wry expression that's not quite a smile. "How's your Bar with pancakes?"
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carisma_sensei
no subject
Date: 2013-06-07 01:22 am (UTC)Nobody calls him that. He's been Nathan to everyone in town since he was a boy; he'll be Nathan til the day he dies. Haven doesn't put a lot of heft in titles, witnesses and suspects are just as likely as Mrs. Miller down the street to call him by his given name instead of Detective.
But nobody ever calls him mister.
He doesn't correct her, though. His eyes are caught on something other than the two drinks sitting on the polished bartop: a little square-cut glass of toothpicks, one of several he can see space more or less evenly down the bar. For when patrons get their end-of-the-universe popcorn stuck in their teeth, he guesses, but he reaches out to tug one loose, even as he shakes his head slightly at her question. "Not much of a drinker."
Definitely not right this second, surrounded by the odd and the impossible, with Parker's materialized dirty martini staring him in the face. Not until he knows.
There's magic here. Maybe. Of some kind that might be different from whatever's in Haven, and, anyway, if Miss Kate Barlow is right, they aren't really in Haven anymore. Maybe aren't even in their own world, anymore, and before anything else happens, he's got something to try. Closes his fingers in a fist around the toothpick, leaves one end just slightly sticking out.
And then he presses the pad of his thumb down into it, as hard as he can, while looking back up at the two women. "Beer's fine."
It looks just like he's making a fist. Squeezing a hand at his side. Nothing to concern themselves with, unless something happens, but --
Nothing does. He presses harder. Nothing.
There's no disappointment that shows, no flicker of anything. He just pushes the toothpick into his jeans pocket like that was his plan all along, and shrugs, mouth twisting into a wry expression that's not quite a smile. "How's your Bar with pancakes?"
Beer's okay. Pancakes are better.