2013-01-05 Firsts

Light snow is falling on the city that never sleeps, muffling sounds and giving everything a temporary blanket of pristine white. With the celebration of the New Year over many 'tourists' have left, and that shows in the currently nearly empty state of Anita Bella, a humble Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. Only on her second shift, Fern Fiddlehead has just finished refilling the coffee cups of two old-timers, a couple of gents who seem to fit right in with the slightly shabby decor as if they've been here since the moment the establishment opened, some twenty years ago. Dingy white tennis shoes squeak as the young waitress walks, calling back over her shoulder cheerfully, "I'll see if there's still some tiramisu for you!" Her path dutifully heads directly for the swinging doors to the kitchen.

Only two types of people see One with any sort of regularity: clients and restaurant employees. He's dressed down today; sporting a calf-length grey coat, matching slacks, and thin, v-necked sweater.

Though he carries a briefcase, he's using an elegant silver pen to scribble on the backs of paper napkins. A series of intricate mathematical equations flows from one improvised piece of paper to the next, and on to the next. His brow is furrowed and he nibbles thoughtfully at his lower lip. Then, frowning, he scratches out one entire portion of his work and pushes the napkins away. He's slipped in quietly and seated himself in corner with a decent view of the restaurant and plenty of room to stretch out. It doesn't take long for him to remove his coat and push back his sleeves, either.

A glance has the newest arrival noted before Fern disappears into the kitchen, the door flapping behind her. Voices can be heard, but are so muffled it's hard for most people to tell the genders or even how many exactly there are. After a moment, relieved of her burden of the BUNN coffee decanter but now carrying a single plate, Fern is back, moving with an easy, quick step to set the plate down at the table, chirping to the two men, "It's the last piece. Anita's desserts always go quickly." Well, always as far as she's seen. Thanks are murmured before the pair begin to reminisce about how Mama used to make the best cannoli, and the waitress steps away, leaving them to their conversation.

Again moving with a brisk efficiency, Fern squeaks her way lightly over to the the table of one in the corner, grabbing a menu as she goes. "Evening, sir," she offers with a friendly smile. "Would you like something to drink while you decide what you'd like?" The menu is set on the edge of the table, her eyes drifting curiously to the discarded napkins before they raise back to the man's face, her smile still easily in place.

"Absolutely," One replies, massaging the bridge of his nose as he speaks. "If I squint at those any longer, I'm going to start making diagrams with straws and I'll be here all night. I'll have a root beer float. And whatever your favorite item is from the menu. I trust you, Miss..."

The smile he flashes back is a winning one, if a bit weary. "...Fren. Quite the moniker. What is that, Polish? Lithuanian?"

There's a quick, sympathetic look as the man speaks of his mathematical woes, but Fern says, quasi-helpfully, "I can bring some out for you." There's a sincere earnestness to her tone, but her eyes show her humor before her smile resurfaces. And there's a smile in return! That is always a good sign. "I haven't been here long enough to have a favorite yet, but I know the lasagna is amazing," she offers, this time trying to be actually helpful, emphasizing the last word to show that it could well be the eighth Wonder of the World. The question of her name's origin draws a laugh, soft but truly amused, as she reaches up and taps the nametag lightly. "It's actually Fern, I'm supposed to be getting a new one made."

"Fern, then." One holds out a hand. "I can't talk, my name's One. Some people think it's weird, they call me Doc. Whichever works for you."

Another pause, this time for a sidelong glance toward his napkins. "Lasagna sounds delicious. And maybe you'd better bring out those extra straws. Just in case."

There's no pause before Fern slips her hand into One's, her grip a soft squeeze, neither very strong nor like having a warm fish slapped into your grip. Comfortably in between. "It's a pleasure to meet you, One." Her brows do lift a touch at the rather singular name, but not enough to be impolite. "Are you a doctor?" Maybe an obvious question, but she's learning not to take things for granted in the city.

She can't help the drift of her gaze again, even going so far as to tilt her head as the napkins take a part of her attention for a moment. It's just a second before she snaps her full attention back to One. "Lasagna and a rootbeer float, then. You want some toothpicks too? In case you need to make smaller diagrams?" There is no attempt to disguise humor as help this time.

"Couldn't hurt." Rather than shake, One returns the squeeze and meets Fern's eyes squarely. There's an unwavering, unflappable confidence to his gaze. His smile has faded to a bare curve at the corners of his mouth. "As for me, I'd say I'm a little bit of everything. Tinker, doctor, soldier, spy," he jests. "I'm a complicated individual."

He releases Fern's hand, but holds her gaze a moment longer. "I shouldn't keep you. Or should I?"

"Hm... Doc of all trades?" she volleys back. "I haven't met anyone that isn't complicated since I left home. You're in good company." There's an openness to Fern's regard, something of a genuine warmth that she's not yet found necessary to guard. She looks quickly over her shoulder toward the kitchen and back. "I'll put your order in, then bring your float back. You can tell me what exactly a tinker does."

She turns without waiting for his response, squeaking her way lightly back to the other occupied table. As she moves she takes her order pad from her dress pocket, pausing to let her eyes roam briefly over it, then scribbling at the bottom. Walking again, she rips it from the pad and spends a second as she drops the check off, promising to take their praise back to Anita herself. When she leaves them, there's another pause halfway to the kitchen, another scribble on the pad. Her eyes drift up before her head lifts, looking to One's table, smiling, and then *squeak*squeak* she disappears into the kitchen.

One's eyes follow Fern to and fro, but curiously rather than crudely. The small smile is still tugging at his lips when she looks over at him. He gives her a nod, laces his fingers together, and rests his hands comfortably on the tabletop while he waits. As quiet and empty as the place is, it's obvious that he's watching her. Rather than trying to hide it, he makes it clear that she's the only interesting thing to look at.

After a minute the old guys have divided up their bill, leaving cash to pay it, making to leave without waiting for change. As they shuffle to the door they bundle up, talking as they go. "So whatd'ya think?" The response comes with a shrug, "Brought the coffee without asking. Fast enough, for being new. Think she'll last?" The answer is delayed by a hacking cough, before finally, "We'll see. Maybe this one will." The opening door lets in a blast of cold air and a puff of snow before it swings closed again.

After another moment, Fern is back, glancing to the table, noting it empty, and not bothering to go over there first. There's a large float glass in one hand, and the other is wrapped around a bundle of wrapped straws. There's a smirk on her lips as she puts the float down first, then lets the straws tumble from her hand onto the table. Then the hand dips into her pocket, draws out a box of toothpicks, and they're plunked smartly down as well. Her eyes stay on One's face. "Anything else, sir?"

"I don't need anything, no," One admits. "But I'd like it if you joined me. Will you? No offense, but it looks like you have some free time."

It's a level of directness that you don't often see in a world so full of tact, vocal dancing and careful phrasing. One unwraps two of the straws, uses the first to drink deeply from his float, then plunks in the second one and offers it to Fern.

They're bendy straws, too!

Fern's smile broadens, and she glances back toward the kitchen, over to the empty table, to the door, and then her eyes return to One. "No offense taken," she says lightly, tucking one leg under her as she slides onto the opposite bench, "And thank you for the invitation. I have to admit that I'm dying to see if Julius got the ratio of rootbeer to ice cream right." She leans forward, taking the second straw for a somewhat smaller pull than One's, eyes lowered to look at the foamy head. Sitting back, licking her lips absently, she nods. "Not bad. Ya think?"

"I wouldn't know," One admit readily. "I've never had one before. It's... cold. And creamy. But I like it."

After another long drink through his straw, he swirls it around and considers the concoction for a moment. "What does one do with the ice cream? I'm resisting a childish urge to whip my straw around the glass, make noises with my mouth, and pretend I'm a cement mixer. Would that be appropriate?"

Fern clearly looks surprised at such a revelation, brows arching expressively over widened blue eyes. "Never had one before? If I'd have known that, I'd have made it myself. The first rootbeer float in your life can never be done again." She looks almost disappointed at the lost opportunity to have given him a rootbeer float experience he'd never forget, but her smile isn't away for long. She watches him lean for another drink, then laughs at his words, an open, honest sound. "I think it would be perfectly appropriate, if you can't help yourself." There's no one there but them, and whoever's in the kitchen.

"It seems a bit undignified, but I have to admit, I find myself compelled." These words are spoken in a stage whisper, as if One is sharing a deep, dark secret with his new friend. Then, grinning, he stirs the drink up into a frothy mess and makes motor sounds with his lips.

"Ahem," he clears his throat when he's finished and gives his collar an exaggerated tug. "Of course, I'll have to kill you if you ever tell anyone about that."

It's clearly a struggle for Fern not to burst out laughing again, lips pressed together, looking like she's about to explode as One gets his cement mixer impersonation out of his system. She finally can't bear it, ducking her head as her hands come up to stifle her giggles. Getting control back, she wipes a tear from her cheek, shaking her head as she promises, "Not a soul will hear it from me. Even if they torture me." She assumes, of course, that he's joking about having to kill her, no thought otherwise entering her mind.

She pauses, looking at him delightedly, before saying, "You have to admit it felt good, didn't it? Everyone seems so serious all the time. You have to live a little, One!"

"So I have begun to learn," the self-proclaimed doctor replies. His smile is back and his fingers are laced together again. Slowly, he leans forward to take a hands-free sip of the root beer float without taking his eyes off of Fern. "Mmmrr. New experiences are so rare. Something you have to cherish, y'know? It's too bad that this won't be my first time trying lasgna. I got to have that once before. Out of a German field kitchen, though. Is it supposed to have blood sausage in it? Because I found that to be somewhat... offputting."

Fern inelegantly settles her elbows on the table, obviously feeling more comfortable with One as they share some time, propping her chin on her fists. She doesn't shy away from his direct look, waiting for him to straighten before she leans to capture her own straw again, taking a longer draw than her first. A draw she nearly chokes on. "Blood sausage in lasagna?" Her lip curls, showing distaste without reserve, as she shudders theatrically. "Ugh. I don't think it's supposed to be in there, no. So, we'll say you'll be trying real, authentic lasagna for the first time." Her good humor cannot even be long dampened by blood sausage.

One's smile broadens. "Good," he replies. "My most vivid memories of German lasagna are of the sausage and the fact that it made me shit on accident. Here's to making new memories."

As if that's a statement that a person is likely to hear or make on any given day, he leans forward calmly and drains the root beer float to the dregs. "Delicious. If you have apple juice, I'd like to try that next. I've had orange juice, papaya juice, grapefruit juice, even fresh coconut milk, but I've never tried apple juice before."

This time Fern has to stifle a surprised squeal at One's statement. "Oh my god!" She dissolves into laughter again, blushing a lovely shade of deep pink, lowering her head to hide it for a moment. Any thought that he might have been flirting a little has left the building, and as he finishes his drink her laughter tames down to giggles, which taper off as she looks up at him. Again, there is a tear from the laughter on her cheek and she swipes it away. She hits the table lightly, "Well then, darnit, I'm gonna get you some apple juice!" As she pushes to her feet she reaches for the empty glass to take it with her. "I bet your lasagna should be done, too. No blood sausage."

Now One's head cocks a fraction to the side as he follows Fern with his eyes, taking a long moment to study her face, her rosy cheeks, and that single tear before she bustles away to bring more surprises back to the table. "Thank you!" he calls after her.

By the time she returns, he's twisted and folded his equation-covered napkins into a trio of paper roses. Rather than marring them, the scribbles add elements of shadow and light that help bring the little flowers to life.

On her way to the kitchen, the thank you turns Fern's head back, her smile lingering long enough for her to nearly walk into a chair. She looks where she's going at the last second, sidestepping it with only a little bark of her knee, and her step hurries as she cringes inside, just knowing he saw that.

When she emerges again, it's with a tray balanced on one hand, every bit the New York City waitress. Placed before him in turn are a plate of hot lasagna, homemade and oozing cheese, a basket with some rolls and butter, silverware wrapped in a napkin, a glass of water, and a glass of apple juice. "I'm not sure how well apple juice goes with lasagna, so I brought water. Unless you wanted something else to drink?"

The tray gets tucked under her arm and she makes no move to retreat, eyes flickering over the paper roses before stopping on him expectantly.

"We'll soon find out," One responds. He lifts the roses, having twisted the stems together to form a little bouquet, and places them on the edge of Fern's tray. "Thank you," he repeats. "You're very kind."

Simultaneously innocent and confident, he carries himself in a manner that one sees most often in children and serial killers. He's certainly strange, but not immediately dangerous. He's staring again, though. Then he blinks, smiles, and turns his attention to his juice. The glass is picked up carefully, sniffed, and finally sipped from. "Mmm. It's sweet! I've read that there are many, many kinds of apples. I've only had ones that were tart. This must have come from one of the sweet varieties. Which did you use to make it?"

Fern doesn't seem to be equating One with a serial killer, as the gift of the roses draws a soft "Awww" from her. "Thank you, that's very sweet." She looks genuinely pleased, and already there's a light of fondness for this odd sort of man in her eyes. His examination of the apple juice is watched, and she waits for his reaction to this 'first'. The roses are picked up, twirled lightly in her fingers, and there's another softer laugh at his reaction to the drink. "We get it out of a bottle, and all it says are 'apples'."

"This warrants further investigation," One says solemnly. He takes another drink, lets out a satisfied sigh, and picks up his fork. "No blood sausage," he reminds himself. Then he digs in.

The first mouthful brings a broad grin to his face and a tiny twinkle to his eyes. "S'good," he says, covering his mouth with one hand. "S'hot."

When he's chewed and swallowed, he looks back up at Fern and shoots her another smile. This one is crooked and boyish. "I don't like admitting to people that I haven't done normal things. I usually lie or avoid the subject. I don't want to lie to you, though. Especially now that I know how much fun it is to share your first root beer float with someone."

She can't help it.... Fern scoots back into the booth across from One as he moves for the lasagna, watching him like a spectator at a sporting event, with a look of eager expectation. "Anita makes the best lasagna I've ever had," she agrees, settling the tray on the seat beside her, paper roses still in her fingers. One's crooked smile and admission softens Fern's own smile, though her eyes still sparkle. "And your first apple juice? And real lasagna?" It's just as much fun for her, watching his reactions, and she doesn't put a lot of thought into //why// there are so many new things to him.

Until the word 'normal' dawns on her. Still, she doesn't press. If him not lying is a step for him, another first in this way, she's willing to just accept it at face value for now. "Everyone needs someone to be themselves with, I think. So if you maybe feel like that, it makes me happy. I'm having fun sharing your firsts, too, One."

"Then have fun sharing my lasagna. I want to save room for dessert." Grinning wider, One passes his fork over to Fern. "I've never had cannoli, either."

Stern. Serious. Daunting. These are words that describe One in his professional life. This curious, exploratory facet is one that few people ever get to see, and none have seen so deeply. "...what *is* a cannoli, anyway?"