2007-05-27: Guns with a Side of Mashed Potatoes


Jack_icon.gif Trina_icon.gif


Ever accidentally walk in on someone polishing their gun? How about a whole friggin' arsenal? It's not as dirty as it sounds.

Date It Happened: May 27, 2007

Guns with a Side of Mashed Potatoes

Brooklyn, NYC - Back Room - Den of Iniquity

This room bears a marked difference from the pub in front. A thick-knapped blue carpet embroidered with gold thread covers the floor from wall to wall. On this side of the door it becomes apparent that the floor-to-ceiling mirrors are also one-way windows that show a clear view of what lies on the other side. In the center of the room a bright overhead lamp beams a circle of light down onto a large, well-tended octagonal poker table. At the rear there's a broad desk of high-gloss teak that has several file folders and untidy stacks of paperwork atop it. Along the wall perpendicular to the desk there's a small bar and refrigerator that are stocked with much higher quality beverages than those in the pub. Obviously as well cared-for as the table, the wood furniture gleams and smells faintly of polish. Behind the desk, picture windows covered by slatted bamboo blinds face out toward the street.

Jack's supposed to be covering a shift today, but he's really got other things on his mind. After calling in a trusty NPC bartender to fill orders, he beat a hasty retreat to his office. Must prepare.

In the back, there are wooden crates, hefty cardboard boxes, and hunks of oilcloth spread about in a recklessly haphazard fashion. Piles of pistols, rifles, shotguns, and grenades have been sorted out into untidy piles, with a further pile composed of a little of everything. Presently, he's hunched over the poker table in the center of the room. Sweat drips freely from his brow, his face is pale, and he quivers slightly. Then a bulky, flare gun-like weapon appears on the table, and he sighs and sags. Unnoticed, blood begins to pool in one of his nostrils.

Know what trusty NPC bartenders are also good for? Telling girlfriendish employees where the boss is. There's a rustle of plastic as Trina makes her way into the back room with a short, tentative stride that sounds out in dull thuds as her boots carry her forth into the workroom of a dedicated man. After all, she doesn't wanna push her way into something where she's not welcome. …whatever that something may be. "Jack?" she calls as she rounds the door, a hand stretching up to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her hair as it escapes the elastic that's got half of her hair pulled away from her face in a messy bun. "Y'in here, babe?"

Jack blinks, then raises his head raggedly. When he figures out that his girlfriend just walked in on him building up an arsenal, he has the presence of mind to realize it's a bad thing and blush. His expression is reminiscent of nothing so much as a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Sheepishly, he pushes away from the table and nudges one booted toe against a pile of guns, as if he might be able to scoot them out of sight. He's dressed in serviceable black pants and a matching t-shirt, no going out attire. "Uhm," he begins awkwardly. "What's up?"

Stop. Process. Trina looks at her boyfriend with pursed lips and then back to the guns. Then back to him. Strangely, however, there is no outward sign of agitation. Merely a surprised, expressionless pause, followed by an arch of eyebrows and an expectant sideways tilt of her head. When she manages speech at last, she sounds almost… amused. It's hard when he's got that face on. Honestly, there has to be a good reason for this. Right? Please, God, don't let this guy be some kind of arms dealer. Please? That would *so* be her luck right now. "Somethin' you wanna tell me, darlin'?"

Not for the first time, Jack takes a moment to close his eyes and fervently wish that he'll spontaneously acquire the ability to send things /back/ where they came from. One eye creeps open, then the other. No dice. "Damn," he mutters under his breath. The blood in his nose has collected to a single, heavy drop that creeps out and splashes onto the floor. Hours of constantly moving weapons around has taken its toll, and with his concentration broken, he is left drained and exhausted. Time for some unadulterated truth. "A good friend got shot. I plan to do something about it." It's a painful admission. Not the doing something, that comes naturally. The shot friend. Every time he says it out loud, it makes the attack more real. Vivid.

"Well, sounds like you need somethin' to eat, then," Trina replies without missing a beat, making her way into the room proper. Her smile's tight, but the bag proudly bearing the red and white face of Colonel Sanders is unceremoniously deposited onto the table. "Hope you like Original Recipe. There's enough to share if you felt so inclined." Now that the table's got her dinner offering, she moves to take off the black knit hoodie jacket she's got wrapped around her waist. One of her hands holds the majority of its bulk while the other hand lifts one of the sleeves, ducking in to dote a little. "Now, hold still. You look a mess." Is she just brushing over reality? Maybe a little. But honestly, she's not really sure how to reply to what she has just been told. She's not even sure she's processing everything she's taking in.
At least he was honest. That's all she ever really asked of him.

Jack is prepared to be doted on. He's hurt, confused, and frankly feeling a little lost. With a ponderous sigh, he sinks down into one of the wingbacked chairs at the poker table. The recently relocated (and unloaded) grenade launcher is tossed atop the mixed pile casually. "I'm famished," he admits. "I've been awake for.. I don't even know how long." He twists his neck to the left and right, producing a explosive series of popping sounds. With a grimace, he snuggles his head sideways until his cheek is pressed against Trina's stomach, soaking in her presence. Girl. Pretty. Smell good.

Trina's jacket sleeve, gentler than cheap paper napkins and thus imminently preferable, is lifted up to wipe blood off poor Jack's face. When at last he settles his head against her, her chest heaves a sigh as she gingerly strokes at his hair. It's a maternal sort of instinct that twinges in heart, desperate to comfort and ease and quick to dismiss what she had originally come to talk about. "You sure you're doin' the right thing?" No accusation lies in her voice. It's a question of certainty. "I admit I only know a bit about guns, but… Well, um, you— have a 'wee' bit of firepower sittin' here." Hee. She got to say 'wee'. Dating an Irishman rocks. Even a crazy, stockpiling-hordes-of-weapons Irishman. …Let's not start with the IRA jokes, 'kay? 'kay.

"I didn't want you to see this," Jack admits, his voice muffled by both Trina's tummy and her shirt-wiping. The tender gesture isn't lost on him, but he reaches up to stop her away. "No, you'll—awww. See, you ruined your coat." He's smiling up at her fondly, though. Unfortunately, the smile is short-lived. "Somebody hurt my friend, Cassie," he explains, waving at the ordinance. "Hurt her bad, and did it for no reason. A lot of people care about her, and collectively, we're pretty pissed off."

"It's black," Trina replies matter-of-factly to Jack's protest. "It'll never show once it's been through a good wash." Stepping back after a quick kiss on the top of Jack's head, the brunette puts her hands to work making a plate for him. She may not be able to cook, but she is perfectly capable of shoveling out artery-clogging amounts of the closest thing to down home cooking you can find this far north. "Better I know now than find out later, I guess." And she'd be lying if she didn't at least admit to herself that she'd have wanted at least a thought's worth of the same were it her, instead of Cass. "Just make sure that y'all are sure it's the right thing. Don't know your friends worth a tinker's damn, but I want you to think a little bit about it. Don't have to change your mind, just promise me you'll give it a good think first."

Jack gestures to the miniature arsenal and mess of empty boxes. "I've had a night and a morning to think. I just don't want to lose you over doing what I feel is right." If anything, he seems surprised by Trina's ready acceptance of his morally grey side. "I could introduce you to my friends," he offers, and not for the first time. "I think they'd really like y—ooh. Breast. Jackie loves the breasts. And mashed potatoes."

Trina'd be one hell of a hypocrite if she weren't, by her own reasoning. Particularly considering what she was coming in her to say. Hey, honey! Guess what! I killed this jerk a while back by accident and kinda sorta hid it from EVERYBODY POSSIBLE but this guy found out so… Yeah. Not thinkin' that conversation would go so well right now. Besides. He seems to have enough on his plate right now. That's why Trina simply pulls out two chicken breasts between two fingers and dumping them on the plate with a pile of the mashed potatoes and gravy before handing off the silverware.
"Yeah," she manages to say after a minute. "Maybe after things settle down a bit." With her tight little smile, the plate is then held out with both hands. "Two breasts, all yours. Maybe if you're good, you can get your hands on a couple more later."

Halfway through unwrapping his spork, Trina's implication dawns on Jack and he grins crookedly. He stabs the utensil and leaves it free-standing in his potatoes, then turns to face his girlfriend properly. "I really like you," he confides solemnly. "Like. A lot. I care and stuff." Come on, Jackie. Use your words. "I just want you to know that I really appreciate having you around. Stuff like this," he pauses to pick his spork back up and point to the food. "It's small, but it's very sweet."

"You're welcome, Jack." It's not just Jack that seems to have a problem with that sort of verbiage, Trina lets an awkward silence pass where she struggles with trying to get words carrying any sort of emotion to even open her lips. None seem to come with enough power, however, to part the rosy gates. "I'm glad to do it for you. I really, really am." Then a sniff and a downward tilt of her head as she furrows her brow. "Um. …about being around. I was… kinda wondering if you'd mind me maybe starting full-time a few days early. If you already have the schedule set in stone for the week, it's fine! I… I was just wondering." So I can ditch a PI. Digging through the bucket of chicken, Trina finally extracts a drumstick for herself and pours her attention there for a bit.

Jack shovels in several sporkloads of potatoes, picking up speed until he's pretty much stuffing his face. "Sure, you cn—omnom-start whnevr-mmrownom," he says between facefuls. Spork aside now, he picks up one of the breasts and tears out a bite. Ravenous much? After he's chewed and swallowed some protein, he continues a little more clearly. "I normally close, so I'll be happy to let you take a few shifts off my hands."

There's a deep sigh of relief as Trina swallows down a few greasy mouthfuls. "Awesome! That's… awesome." Wrapping the bone in a napkin, she then wipes her hands off on her jeans and leans in to snag a kiss. Her motions are quick now, all too ready to snap all ties to the one way that Archer has for tracking her right now. She is SO SMART. S-M-R-T. Her hands gesture wildly and enthusiastically. "That's great. I'm gonna… go tell Rob and Sue. They just finally got someone, so I'll want him to have plenty of notice. Just promise to be careful 'til I see you next, 'kay?"

"Promise, baby." Yes, Jack will be careful as he stalks, captures, systematically tortures, and then executes a mugger. "You take care, too. Thanks again for the food." He smiles sweetly and returns the kiss, then gives Trina a fond pat on the behind on her way out.

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