A/N: Unbetaed, so apologies for any mistakes or gross artistic misjudgements.
Late Stranger
"Two bacon cheese burgers and a large soda, please. Oh and some fried pickle chips, double-size," says her latest customer, and she almost gasps.
It's been a long day and she can't wait to close up the place in half an hour, but somehow his voice still manages to pique her attention, in more than just a perfunctory punch-order-into-register, grab-required-food, stuff-into-bag, hand-over-with-smile, take-cash sort of way. Maybe it's because the words tumble out a little too loud, a little too fast, like he's a small boy ordering his meal for the first time, making her want to laugh and reassure him, Don't worry, pumpkin, if you get something wrong, it's just a burger, not the end of the world.
It's endearing and a punch in the gut. How can a random stranger remind her so much of Dave?
Physically, they're nothing alike. Dave was never such a hulk of a man. Nor did he have such girlish long hair. The tallness, the hair… it makes her think of that doctor show she used to watch. Dave was many things, but he never had any likeness to her TV crushes. And yet… there's the same lost-little-boy-look intermingled with a profound aura of safety and comfort, inextricably so, and she can't quite decide which prevails, the instinct to protect, or the secure sense of being under another's protection.
More prominently, though, there's this mixture of relief and fatigue painted all over his little-boy-face in haunting colors, and really, that's such a perfect rendition of Dave's expression back at the hospital when Joy was finally there, whole and healthy, after 23 hours of sharp contractions and complications, that it's quite impossible to tell if it's a Monet or just a John Myatt.
In a slight haze, she hands him the paper bag with his order and the soda. It's only then that she fully notices the sling.
"Do you need a hand with that?" she asks, glancing at his broken arm, at the entrance and back. It's not too busy, there's just one other person standing in line behind him, so there's no reason why she shouldn't quickly help him get through the door all right.
She tells herself it's not about Dave that she wants to make sure he's okay.
"No, no, I'm good," he says with a quick smile, flashing abysmal dimples at her, and hugs the paper bag and soda cup tightly to his chest. The sudden understanding that he's already had to shoulder more difficulties than just buying fast food one-handed, and that it's probably been months since the last time anyone tried to make sure he was okay, stabs her, painfully, right beneath the heart.
This time she doesn't even attempt to tell herself that it's got nothing to do with Dave.
"Not too worry, I'll lend you a hand," interjects another voice, slick and bored and dripping with innuendo. It's the customer standing behind the tall stranger with the little-boy-face, who, hearing him, spins around so fast it makes her dizzy. "These crazy weeks with your brother have really sharpened my dexterity, believe me."
"What are you doing here, Crowley?" the tall stranger growls, no longer sounding so cuddly and childlike. She gets the distinct impression that if he had a free hand, he'd seize the other man by the collar and punch him, hard.
The man called Crowley seems unperturbed. His voice is all silk and superciliousness. "I just wanted to know if you're here planning on binge-eating yourself to death because things didn't go according to plan… or if you're here because they did."
"Take a guess, what do you care?"
Watching them, her best guess is that the tall stranger's brother and Crowley dated and broke up, and that the brother then tried to kill himself. Or something like that. What she knows for sure, though, is that things were touch-and-go for a while, but now the brother's made it. The similarities between her tall stranger and Dave back when Joy was born are enough to convince her of that. She's not so sure if the other man, Crowley, can tell too.
"I don't care," he says lightly. The great care he takes to shape these words on his tongue and coax them out of his mouth with a teasing lilt seems to belie that. "Either way, my little problem's been taken care of, hasn't it? I'm only here to hold open the door for you, Moose."
To her surprise, this is exactly what he does.
"Just… get away from us, Crowley," the tall stranger snaps irritably and walks right past him through the open doorway and disappears outside.
To her even greater surprise, Crowley doesn't follow him. He merely calls out, "You're welcome for the help, Moose," inclines his head ironically in her direction, and leaves.
She stares after them, and wonders if they'll ever meet again and make a fresh start. The brother's alive, after all. It seems possible. She wants to believe it's possible.
Surveying her surroundings, the soda fountain, the deep fat fryer, a desert of gaudy plastic, paper and grease that might have had it's charm for her twenty years ago, she thinks of all the missed calls from Dave and the tears well up in her eyes. What happened with Joy wasn't his fault, not really. But that doesn't change anything, and it would be unfair on both of them if she persuaded herself otherwise.
With determination she wipes away the tears and looks up. The neon red "Open" sign in the window blinks at her. It's quiet outside. Time to lock up.