One Little Misstep [Theta]

How many cliche things can you think of before breakfast?

So far, Rudy had counted six.

First of all, she was in a coffee shop. It wasn't very well designed, and she was sure the stains on the walls weren't their signature beverage, but it was a coffee shop. The place was old, and might have been a diner once upon a time. The counters were lined with metal, and the booths left over in the corner were a dull cyan. She loved those booths. No one bothered to set foot near the nasty old chairs. It was good for concentration. And she supposed it didn't smell quite as terrible as everyone insinuated - she was positive there couldn't be more than three molded biscuits under the table at a time. The walls were yellowing, and were probably white in their prime. Oh, to think of the memories old couples must share about this place. That counted as cliche number two.

The third was the fact that she was drawing. She was drawing in the middle of a coffee shop. Funny enough, it was also the fourth, because of the laptop she used as her medium. Her pen glided gracefully over the smooth surface of the tablet. She was intent on keeping it in very good condition. One hand hovered over the keys to undo a stroke, the other repeating them endlessly, she felt content in knowing she would be occupied by these lines for at least another hour. The sun was beating warmly on her back as it stretched towards its peak. This would have been a wonderful moment to tell her children about later, if the circumstances weren't so pitiful.

As far as last night went, Rudy made a point to pretend it wasn't real. The entire thing was far too manic for her tastes, and she hadn't slept a wink since she'd been out to fetch the milk. Her mother wasn't dense, either, and she'd been grounded on top of the whole ordeal. That didn't keep her from slipping out anyway. All in all, she was feeling motivated and couldn't spare a second. What kind of work would she get done being interrupted by a fresh chore every ten minutes?

Now that she was thinking about it, maybe there weren't six cliches here after all. It wasn't as if this was some special shop that reserved a place in her heart from her childhood - no, the place was only finished two years ago. Right now, she was simply content making strides in her work. On her monitor was a thin sketch layer of a woman with cat features, nearly complete and ready for refining.

The sun was high in the air as Theta Sigma made his way down the sidewalk, fiddling with the tiny keyboard of an old cracked phone with one hand, and holding a greasy McDonalds burger with an equally greasy wrapper in the other. Around him, the signs of oncoming spring was all around; a couple of birds, back early from their migration, twittered amongst themselves, chasing each other through the sky on tan coloured wings. Icicles rooted on the roofs of closed shops dripped as the noonday sun warmed them, the water sending a fresh spring smell into the air, tasting sweet like oxygen.

He hadn’t been able to get back to the TARDIS last night. He hadn’t even gotten to call Alonso and let him know where he was. His companion must be worried sick… that is, if he was still alive. Theta had (almost complete) confidence that the Midshipman could get himself out of the situation. Theta was just a bit bummed that he couldn’t make it back to help. He frowned down at the phone that he was trying to modify, its screen freezing up again. He had needed a phone to contact Alonso with, his own back on the planet Kaurach. Not wasting the little Earth money he had on a more expensive phone had seemed like a good idea. He just wished that he had transferred more of his credits into dollars or pounds; otherwise he wouldn’t be stuck here as he was, with only a slightly-broken phone, a gross McDonalds burger, and $20 in his pocket.

Growing frustrated at the unresponding device, he shoved it back into his jacket pocket, promising himself that he’d look at it later, after he found a warm building to sit in and wasn’t so frustrated. Many of the smaller shops were closed right now, since it was Sunday. There were a few open, though, one of which being an old coffee shop. It was so worn down looking, Theta was sure nobody would even be in there… which would be good, because a crowded shop means more chances of him getting kicked out if he didn’t buy anything.

A bell dinged lightly as he entered, swinging back and forth from its place atop the door. Theta ventured further into the shop, dropping down in one of the counter stools, which was surprisingly comfy for the state it seemed to be in. He rubbed his hands to warm them, careful to avoid straining his healing wrist, which was now wrapped with a thin ace bandage. He only half noted the presence of the other person in the shop, mildly interested by the teen's drawing but not enough to chat with her.

The tinkling of the bell caught Rudy's attention for a moment, and she peered over her shoulder instinctively to judge the change in surroundings. At a quick glance, nothing changed notably. A simple shopgoer had entered, probably in search for a coffee before heading off to work. Then again, it was Sunday or something, so maybe not. 

She found herself getting sidetracked, wondering about the possible reasons to enter a cafe this early in the morning on the weekend. Shifting in her seat, she moved to try and get another look at the patron, and immediately snapped back to her work, feeling heat rise to her face. That was him. It was that guy. That guy from the mess last night that probably led the crazy cat woman there. She wasn't sure if that in-thought pun was intended. Either way, she was put on edge. 

Lifting her laptop bag, Rudy shifted it to her other side, as to make room for her to squeeze herself closer to the wall. It almost served as a sort of barrier, too, she supposed. Her eyes locked, unblinkingly, onto her computer screen, hands shaking far to much to get out a single proper line. The noisy slamming of the undo key was probably getting a bit too loud and too repetitive. Perhaps she should be busying herself on finding a logical reason to scram instead of pretending everything was perfectly, ordinarily comfortable.