manofmyword | (no subject)

(no subject)

There is a man in the bar, sitting alone at a table for four with the Observation Window directly on his left, close enough to touch. He has an enormous glass jar of jelly beans and he is methodically sorting them by colour into a number of smaller bowls laid out in front of him.

Other things about him that might come off as odd include: the fact that he is wearing a ferociously lilac button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows under a muted green vest; the fact that he is not wearing any shoes, and his socks don't match, one of them yellow with a black pattern of bats and the other black with little yellow smiley faces; and, finally, the scars on his face, extending the sides of his mouth into a permanent crooked smile.

He might welcome company. Or he might not. It's not always easy to tell.

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"I know!" he beams, running his thumb down the lapel before he leans forward to shake her hand. "Made it myself."

"Really?"

A man who sews. There's no reason why he shouldn't, just a surprise he bothers and Steph examines the vest with sharper eyes, grinning as they shake. "Wow, that's quite a thing."

It's as close to flawless as makes no difference. He is very good.

"Nice to be appreciated," he says as he lets go, tilting his head and smiling again.

She'd be even more impressed if she knew anything about clothes, honestly. The fact that he sews at all is still the part that throws her.

Steph leans back with her hand released, examines the bean in her hand and, tentatively, pops it into her mouth for an experimental chew.

"Oh, that's basil," she says immediately, half-laughing as she lifts a hand to cup over her lips, amused as much as startled. "Maybe I should stay away from the green ones, that's strong."

"How 'bout a red?" he suggests, reaches into the jar for another handful, and starts to distribute them into their appropriate containers. There are two bowls with reds in them: one shading into orange, one into purple. He tosses a bean into the red-orange bowl that's so dark it's nearly black.

She considers going after it - at least she can rest assured it's probably not another leaf-flavor - but it's a little too dark, too red for comfort. She reaches for the red-purple instead, pulling out a deep plum.

She's hoping it's actually plum, honestly, but not very strongly.

"You're not eating them?" she asks after a moment. He still hasn't given her a name, but that's not the oddest response she's had to a greeting in this bar.

"I'm not? Silly me."

With a wink, he picks one out of his handful and tosses it into his mouth without looking at it. A flash of something that might be white or pale yellow before it disappears.

Odd. She'll give him that. Smiling crookedly, the pleasant side of bemused, Steph lifts her eyebrows and waits. "Good?"

"French fries," he says happily, and flicks two beans into a bowl full of ones that are speckled in multiple colours.

That sounds good!

Until...

"Cold?" Steph asks, her nose wrinkling again. There's very little as terrible as a cold french fry.

"I dunno," he says, shrugging expressively and dumping the last three beans from the handful into a bowl of very light colours. "Works out somehow."

"Huh."

The newest bean is popped into her mouth. She doesn't embarrass herself like that time Natasha introduced her to tiramisu, but there's definitely a sound of surprised pleasure. "Chocolate! And... cherries, I think."

He bounces a little in his seat and claps his hands twice. "Oh, good for you."

He is an interesting man. Definitely not a future thing, there were men who acted like this back in her day, too. They just didn't do it in the bright light of a public bar.

Of course, in 2012, they're doing it in feather boas down a major street with pride. That was interesting.

So she grins back, amused, and folds her hands in her lap. "Any reason why you're organizing them at all?"

With obvious satisfaction: "Nnnnnnope."

"Bored at the end of the universe?"

"Maybe," he says, grinning.

Steph glances over his shoulder, to the window showing the universe exploding before their eyes, unending. Her smile is small but not bitter, not exactly.

"Stranger things've happened. That's for sure."

He follows her glance and matches her smile; his is soft and crooked.

"I like it," he says, tipping his head at the Window. "It's pretty."

"It is," Steph agrees, quiet.

It's nice, when your friend and teammate isn't falling to his death with stars and planets as his backdrop. Beautiful in its own way. She hasn't tried to commit to paint yet, but the thought's there, waiting for when she's ready.

"Makes you think," he adds. "About endings. Stuff blowin' up. All that."

Her smiles fades, just a touch. Watching stars explode and planets melt, the sky bloom in fireworks, lighting up the black.

"Yeah, it does." Softer.

He makes a quiet noise which could reasonably be described as a contented sigh, and picks a jelly bean out of the speckleds.

It's not ice. Everyone expects her to panic at ice, stares at her too much through it. It gets pretty ridiculous, to the point where Tony and Bruce had stared at her in barely-suppressed panic when they realized that particular Star Wars movie took place first on an ice planet.

No one expects totally normal disturbing things to disturb her, so no one stares at her when she's looking at them. Kind of nice.

Well.

He is looking at her. And smiling, still, just a bit.

"Caramel apple," he says.