2008-06-02: Cinnamon Buns


DaphneM_icon.gif FuturePeter_icon.gif

Summary: A person who can no longer keep up gets tagged.

Date It Happened: June 2, 2008

Cinnamon Buns

Central Park

It's been a long time since this event has occured. Though most no one would know how long it's been. It's something so simple, really. Why would anyone even notice? Except the man who's doing something he normally would never do. Dressed in dark colors, hair slicked back, Peter looks much the same as he did when he wandered into the Pinehearst building and tried to slow down the speedy. With one big difference. There's a scar across his face, cause he can no longer hide it. He also looks rested. Before he seemed like he'd not slept in ages, now he looks like he's slept quite a bit. But it's not sleep that makes this situation weird. He sits on a bench, with a bag purchased from a nearby store— feeding bread crumbs to a bunch of pigeons.

This is odd, cause he's not disguised, not invisible, and doing something as mundane as feeding the birds.

It must be a day for oddities, because when the mentioned speedy arrives at Central Park she is not, in fact, being speedy. Daphne is walking at an absurdly normal pace. See, she just… picked up some cinnamon rolls at a little Italian bakery and she wants to very thoroughly enjoy them. Part of that involves not being anywhere near her current place of employment. And since it was that place where she saw The Invisible Man the first time, imagine her surprise when she wanders the grassy greens and spots a familiar-seeming outline. Is it? Really?

Popping a piece of roll, Daphne's over there in a flash, leaning curiously on the back of that particular bench. "You know you really suck at tag."

The 'over there in a flash' actually startles some of the birds. The speed she moves displaces air, so they fly away. Some feathers even fall off. There's a straightening in the farmiliar outline, before Peter dusts off his hands. A determined look sets in his jaw as he glances over his shoulder at the woman. "I wasn't aware we were playing tag," he says quietly. "But if you were it, then I guess you win." The raspy tone of voice remains the same, but there's something cautious in his eyes, as if he's worried. Before, he could have raced her around the world… now…

Watching her current target with her usual strict carelessness, Daphne can't hide the reaction of surprise when the guy turns and he's got this mighty mark across his face. Her mouth curves downward almost sympathetically for a moment but it's quickly gone. "Wow, sportsman you are not." Daphne seems to think about it longer. She takes the pause to rip off a piece of cinnamon roll and chuck it helpfully where the birds used to be. Birds. It's actually the one thing she can't chase after. "Looks like I'm not the only one you lost something to, sunshine. Guess it wasn't me that got caught after all." She'd sound more smug… if it didn't bother her a bit.

The birds were there, and all it really takes is more food to bring them back. A few more land nearby, to peck at the food, fight over it, while Peter reaches up to touch the mark across his face. It looks pretty old, but in a world of invisible men, speedy women, whose to say he didn't get it in the time since they last saw each other. "You haven't been caught yet," he clarifies. "And this— happened a long time ago. Even if you couldn't see it the last time we met." He inhales slowly before standing up off the bench, turning to face her better. "I don't think anyone's ever called me sunshine before." It would be amusing, if he was the type to smile these days.

Since he goes ahead and touches the scar, Daphne stares at it unabashedly. Though she's soon rolling her eyes at his obvious emphasis; some people just never give it up. "I wasn't even sure I saw -you- the last time we met." When he stands, she straightens off of the bench back, always a little tense. Always a little like a sprinter waiting for the gun. Some days she hides it better than others, but this guy just seems to bring it out. Still, she manages a casual snort at the nickname. "Don't hang around a lot of people with a sense of humor, do ya?"

At least the tension is shared between them. Peter may usually be tense, but it's more there for the moment, far more visible. "I used to," he admits, glancing away from her for a moment as if scanning the area. When he looks back, he might even be surprised she's still standing there. "You're right there, actually. In some ways you haven't actually met me." He shakes his head a moment, as if unsure if he wants to talk about this. "You work for Pinehearst still, right? Can I ask you a question— why did you work for them? Surely there's other people out there who could pay for your particular abilities."

Well, she still has these cinnamon rolls to finish. One's in her mouth, actually, when he poses the statement about meeting. Munching, she raises an eyebrow but refrains from speaking and spitting bread crumbs all over. It's all clear when the question's asked, but she still hesitates. Calculates. "Way to ask the question before I said you could, slick. And yeah, well, they pay a -lot-, not that it's any of your business. I take it you didn't like the tour so much last time you were there. Being creepy might have had to do with that."

"I actually didn't care for the tour any of the times I've been there," Peter clarifies, a hint of caution in his voice even as he continues to speak. If nothing else, he does talk a lot. Sometimes more than he should. Even if he's quieter now than he'd been in the past… And the present. And pieces of the future. "But I think there's some good people working there— better than that place actually deserves. Your boss happens to be my father. And you could say we're… estranged." In the nicest sense of the word. "Though there's a strong possibility you've never actually met your boss, either."

Daphne's chest tightens just the littlest bit, so she crosses her arms over it. "Good people," she repeats skeptically, hopelessly, as she looks away. The gaze is quick back on him, though, at the mention of The Boss. Speaking of /creepy/. "Can't say I'm all that surprised." She says, jumping right over the business of her being in the vicinity of the headman. "Now, why is this my problem whose daddy isn't talking to who?" Drat. Daphne's nostrils actually flare at her own words.

"Maybe because I think your paycheck might run out sooner, rather than later," Peter says, rather boldly in the way he stands straight. Even if he's not tall by any definition of the word— except maybe to people who happen to be rather short. Like… the woman in front of him, perhaps. On average most men happen to be taller than him, though. "And I don't think you're a bad person. I know you're not… But the man you work for— and many of the people who work with him… they are. Maybe you're not a good person— but there are variable definitions of good and bad— aren't there?"

"Look, bud, Pinehearst gives me what I want." And doesn't take away what I have. "It's not my fault or problem what other else goes on there." Well, not entirely. Daphne wouldn't like to admit that she's looked at the files in her hands before and doubted certain people should ever be exposed to the crap she knows goes on at the company. She was never one of the ones she doubted, though. "Are there? Good do good, and bad do bad. If you can't handle it, just get out." There isn't full conviction in her voice; is it obvious?

"Then why do some people do certain bad things, but not other things?" Peter asks, looking over at her quietly before he reaches into the bag and drops more breadcrumbs down to the birds, emptying out the last of it, in fact. The bag gets crumpled up into a ball and he stuffs it into his pocket. Before he could have made it disappear… but that isn't really an option anymore. "I think that good people can do bad things— usually for reasons they think are good. Just like I think bad people can do good things. Not everything that Pinehearst does, for example is bad. It just comes down to… a choice, really."

"I think everybody's something pretty simple," Daphne replies, "You just can't always see it until… it happens. Think what you want, though. Good or bad, most people are just suckers anyway." Or trapped. The speedster, so afraid of cages, gives a hard swallow at the mention of choices. Yeah, she thought she had one once- and it was to get outta there! Now she's stuck. "So what are you?"

"I'm someone who tried to control what can't really be controlled," Peter says quietly, glancing up towards the sky before he looks back down. "Which I guess you could say is exactly what my father is trying to do— I hope we offically meet one of these days. Though you'll have an advantage over me when it happens." Now— of all the times— now he smiles, even if it's more lopsided than full, a tug on the corner of his mouth.

Okay… /weirdo/. Daphne's expression says as much, but she does actually quirk half a smirk and reply, "What are you talking about? You're Mr. Sunshine. You talk like an old fortune-teller and feed birds. Although, it's true, you'd probably do better if you didn't totally give up right away at the first smack of competition." Speaking of which—whoosh! She's standing next to him. From here, she aims to drop a cinnamon bun into his hand. "Tag." No, the speedy jokes will never. get. old.

You're it? Peter can't help but continue to hold his faint smile as he takes the cinnamon bun that she dropped into his hand and takes a bite from it. No, they'll never get old. "You'll find out someday what I'm talking about," he explains, though that doesn't really tell her right now. "Thank you for the cinnamon bun, Daphne," he adds, even raising his eyebrows a bit.

"Don't get too attached," Daphne retorts, "You just looked like you needed it. Though, you're probably okay. I hear they say that chicks dig scars." He's still weird, and he still asks too many weird questions, but there's… ya know, /something/ not too terrible. Maybe just because he bothers to talk to her about it-anything. Whatever it is, the moment's over. "Gotta go," she says, possibly the closest to her first honest good-bye to someone, "Dirty paychecks to pick up and all that."

There's a tilt of his head, before Peter nods, "Hopefully I'll see you later— if not, you'll probably still see me later." There's so much that he could tell her to explain what he means— if he sees her again, maybe he will. But for now, he just lets her go. Not like there's anything he can do about it now. At least he got a cinnamon bun from the meeting?

Seriously. Like a bad fortune cookie. Daphne just sort of makes an 'ookay' face and kicks up her signature dust. Sure, she walked in here but gotta make a proper exit. And he'd better enjoy that freakin' cinnamon bun. It's, like, world-famous.

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