AN: I don't know where this came from. Like at all. But I kinda like it.
-O-O-O-
The yolks of his eggs wobbled cheerily when the waitress set down his plate. He thanked her politely and glanced to the name on her tag. Sam. She didn't look young enough to be a Sam; maybe she'd borrowed the uniform.
She merely snorted at his gesture and returned to the kitchen, her thick-soled sneakers thunking on the bare concrete floor.
This diner wasn't exactly posh. It wasn't filthy, but it was probably a typical quick New York diner, where the cheese on the toast was only melted from radioactive waves and the counters exuded the scent of musty water.
He hadn't really known where the best place to stop in was, and he wasn't a fan of the particular chain of mermaid-stamped coffee houses. It just wasn't his thing. He was beginning to think, three weeks into a new job, that this city was trying to redefine what 'his thing' was.
And he didn't like it.
He poked at his plate while he scanned over a schematic on his iPad. The noise of the diner began to rise, but he didn't really take notice of it until he looked up to rest the threads of muscles in his neck and saw a rippling, impatient, uncomfortable line of customers streaming out the door.
Was this place really a hot spot?
People were chattering on phones, asking for office coffee orders. Other groups were families with kids. Some people were alone, and the ones that were had particularly blank and slack faces. New Yorkers weren't so bad, he decided.
In his hometown of Berk, everyone knew everyone. Not in that too-smiley-bless-your-heart-charm that southern towns have. But in a way that was not always expressed in acts, words, or deeds. A silent and strong way. He'd grown up around hard people and learned to understand them. New Yorkers were no different.
He tapped the screen of his iPad back to life and refused his modifications.
"Hey," a sweet-ish voice said up above him. When he looked up, a girl leaned her palms against his table. Her long blonde hair was pulled off to one side, tied of in a braid. Her eyeliner was dark, but her coat was a typical pea coat that didn't exactly match the rest of her tough-looking exterior. Her blue eyes were framed with light, expressive eyebrows that were currently pulled together in a grimace.
"Uh…" he murmured.
"I really hate to ask this, but there aren't any open booths. And I really don't want to sit with Homeless Joe or Nose Picker." Her words were rougher now, holding that tone of a native citizen that took crap from no one.
"…Nose Picker?" Hiccup felt his glasses droop on the bridge of his nose.
He followed the girl's gaze to the round shape of a balding man a few booths away, with thick lenses and sporting a pair of on-ear headphones that Hiccup was sure were produced in the 90s. The guy's first finger was stuck deep into the speckled buldge of his nose.
"By all means." Hiccup gestured to the vacant expanse of peeling red vinyl before him and the girl slid in.
He went back to his work, munching the biscuit that had come on the edge of his plate, swiping it through the river of yellow yolk. He didn't really take notice of her, and they sat in a silence that Hiccup didn't even guess to be uncomfortable until he looked up at her again. She had a thick paperback propped against her chest. The waitress had brought a cup of coffee and a small plate with an actually appetizing looking Danish.
He looked away again, and flicked the menu down on his tablet to lower the brightness. He didn't know why. It just seemed right.
"I'm Astrid, by the way," she said flatly. She almost sounded offended that he hadn't asked earlier.
"Oh. Dammit, I'm sorry…Um…I'm Hiccup," he rushed. Then swallowed when her perfectly arched brows rose in amusement. "I mean! Harris. I'm Harris. My friends call me Hiccup." He snatched his glass of orange juice, bringing up to take a sip (and hide his face in shame).
"Nice to meet you," she said, with the tiniest hint of laughter in her tone. Was she laughing at him? Definitely. He was so socially inept; she probably thought he spent all his middle school years cooped up in the science lab or something dorky like that. Oh wait.
"A-Astrid is a unique name," he said dumbly, setting the glass down and grimacing.
She nodded. "My family is German. Though, Hiccup's unique too. What's the story there?"
His hand flew to the back of his neck and he shifted uncomfortably. "Eh…its an old childhood nickname. Really boring story, actually."
"Oh, well you're in luck I guess. Boring stories are my forte."
"Ah," he answered, unsure of how to respond. He wished he could come up with something wittier to say.
"I'm a literary student. Sort of. I majored in English back home. I'm studying comparative literature at NYU now…Sort of as this audit thing. Its weird. My parents hate it, but I guess I'm still trying to figure it all out." She waved her hand at the book she'd laid against the cheap Formica table. He noticed the title now. East of Eden by Steinbeck. "That was way too much information. You didn't care," she said suddenly, and he watched the corner of her eyes crinkle in self-reprimand. He knew that look.
"I did care," he breathed, and tired not to seem like he was staring at her for too long. "I can't say I know the first thing about what comparative literature is."
He wanted her to answer, but she tilted her head sideways, casting her eyes to the cover art of her novel. He tried to read her eyes, and then saw the glow of his black electronic rectangle reflected in them.
"Is that a schematic for something?"
His hands flew from his lap, lifting his little stylus to tap against his temple with nervous energy. "Um. Yeah. I'm…I'm an architect. Sort of." He chanced a smirk up at her beneath his lashes, and let it pull to a full on smile when she returned it. It was so grade-school flirty that it made his stomach clench. He scratched a pretend scratch behind his ear and glanced back to his work.
They resumed breakfast in silence. He dotted new rivets onto steel beams, curved this structure that way. She creased the spine of her book between athlete's palms and sipped coffee. Again, he didn't notice when she stood. He really had to work on paying more attention. Especially in a city like this. Though, it wasn't turning out all bad so far.
Astrid was using the copy of her receipt to scribble something. She shoved the thin sheet over and it nudged the corner of his tablet case.
"Totally crazy, and forward, I know. But maybe you could call me sometime?" she said. She didn't smile, but he could see the corner of her full lips twitch just slightly. Her eyes were impossibly clear, reflecting the grey glow from the dreary weather outside.
"Absolutely," he answered, and took the offered receipt form her with two fingers still hooked around his stylus.
She didn't prolong stuffing her book into her shoulder bag, and didn't say anything else before the turned. But he didn't hesitate to reciprocate the wave she gave as she passed through the ruddy glass door back into the bustle of the unsleeping city.
He could get used to New York.