RiSE [Jake]

Drew Roscoe
It's evening to the point that the sun has been down for a while now and street lamps and porchlights alike are the best source of light that the town is going to get.  Sure, the skies were clear and this far from a city the stars were clear in the sky, but the moon was thin and not offering much for light-- not like when it's full and strong enough to cast shadows on it's own accord.  Drew liked the moon best when it was full.  Call it nostalgia.

Tonight, though, RiSE Bakery is closing down, and that's made apparent by floors being swept and cleaned, chairs perhaps up on tables, lights dimmer...  Or simply the hours on the windows declaring that business should be wrapping up soon.  Regardless, the door swings open casually and Drew Roscoe walks in.  Her stride is slow and casual, meandering even, and she's looking about the interior of the shop with a time-killing sort of interest.

She's dressed as casually as she ever is, favoring jeans like she does when the months aren't summer.  She's wearing her jeans tucked into a pair of shin-high brown boots with a low square heel on them and a big warm thick-knitted white sweater with a neckline wide enough to be comfortable, and occasionally slip on the shoulder if pulled in one direction more than the other.  Make-up, as usual, is scant, and her hair is in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.

The barista at the counter, some teenage boy that she doesn't recognize, is greeted with a flash of a bright and friendly smile as she slides up to the counter.  "I know you're close to closing the register... But I don't suppose I could bother you for any kind of tea you've got back there?"  There's a pause, and a follow-up of: "And Mr. Novak, if you don't mind."

Jake NovakWith the nights coming sooner and growing colder, a place like the bakery only seems to appeal more.  The lights inside are warm, and low, and reflect off of loaves in baskets, rolls under glass domes.  It is warm inside, even when the ovens are off; the air smells like bread, like wheat, like hot stones, like vanilla and cinnamon.  Coffee.  Even now, as the kid behind the counter is cleaning up, anticipating the end of the workday, it smells something like home in there.  Someone's home, at least.  Or maybe just the dream of what home is supposed to be.

He looks up, shaking a shag of hair off of his brow to see more clearly.  They aren't usually that busy to begin with; the town is in disarray and some of its residents are in despair.  Yet there's the new vet in town, the new bakery-slash-cafe, and corporate interests.  Maybe it'll revitalize.  But for now, most business at RiSE is done in the morning and early afternoon, not the night.

"Sure, that's okay," says the kid, who doesn't wear a nametag because Mr. Novak doesn't like nametags, who doesn't wear a uniform because Mr. Novak doesn't like uniforms, either.  He puts down the carafe he's just finished rinsing out and turns for a low wooden box on the counter behind him, opening the lid as he sets it on the counter between them.  The interior of the box is softly lined, and contains thirty-six individual compartments, each one stocked with tea bags.  "We have some loose leaf, too, if you like that better," the kid says.

Near them, though at the back of the store, the door leading into the kitchen opens while Drew is looking at the tea selection.  The kid never went to summon his boss, but Drew may very well have noticed a few small black domes upon the ceiling by now.  The kid didn't have to.

Now would be a good time for a suave gentleman, or a gentleman at all, to instruct his employee to go ahead and close the register.  Don't charge my neighbor, of course not.  On the house.  So on.  Jake does not offer anything of the kind.  He and she are square.  But as he exits the kitchen, wearing nothing more interesting than jeans and a charcoal-gray pullover that zips up the neck, he does look at her with some measure of interest -- or mere curiosity -- that was not there when he happened upon her doorstep more than a week ago.

No, not curiosity.
Calculation.

"Ms. Roscoe," he says, his voice rough from apparent disuse -- or perhaps an oncoming cold, "I was beginning to think the raccoons had gotten to the box on your porch before you did."  He looks at the barista, nods his head.  "Go ahead and finish the rest, Trevor.  I'll ring her up."  It is not the most subtle scram one has ever heard, but then, it doesn't seem like Jake cares terribly much about subtlety.

Drew Roscoe"Well go figure," Drew says with an expression that's both pleased and surprised when the boy pulls a box with a wide variety of tea available-- apparently a lot more than what she was expecting.  He offered loose-leaf, and she shook her head and answered with a tone of voice that sounded like a chuckle, but was level words instead.  "No, that'll be alright.  Just a citrusy tea of some sort to go, please.  Like lemon or orange, whichever you think's better."  Again, the boy gets that winning smile, and she's reaching in her back pocket for a fold of cash that she carried with her in favor of a purse or full-sized wallet tonight.

The back door into the kitchen opened up and, without the kid having to call out or go fetch, Jake stepped out of the back of house and into the front.  He, like the barista-boy, was dressed casually and simply, though that did nothing at all to detract from the Tall Dark and Handsome that he had going on about him (he'd probably manage that with shitty shoes and a threadbare band T-shirt too, damn handsome bastards).  He didn't try to stop Drew from paying or insist that the tea was on the house, and Drew didn't seem to be anticipating that he would anyways.

The kid (Trevor, apparently) was told to finish the rest, probably meaning whatever closing chores that he was doing before she'd come into the bakery, and Jake came to the counter instead to help what was probably going to be his last customer of the night-- also his neighbor, as it stands.  His greeting is met with a smile that shows more in her eyes than in her mouth, and she holds a five dollar bill to him to pay for the tea.  As the money's held out, extended for him to take, she answers.

"Oh no, I'm pretty sure I found it soon enough that it wasn't compromised by wildlife.  Thank you, by the way.  I'm pretty sure that the butter didn't yield that much product, but... yeah.  Thanks.  Those croissants were really good."  There's a pause, albeit brief, and she presses on away from simple easy niceties and toward the content on the business card that had done a fine job of catching her interest.  "So, you've led me to believe that you're something of a sharpshooter yourself."

Jake NovakThe boy, Trevor his name is, starts going through the teas for Drew, but that's when Jake comes in.  Trevor is smiling, and truthfully, it's hard not to.  Drew's smile is, yes, in a word: winning.  It's entirely possible that the seventeen year old will have a crush on her just from one of those smiles, and there's not much Drew can do about that.  She's a charmer.  It seems to come naturally.

Jake, on the other hand, jerks his head and tells his employee to get lost in a reasonably pleasant way, walking behind the counter from the kitchen door.  Trevor, bless his heart, had already picked out the tea, which is an orange-cranberry something without caffeine.  Jake cannot be bothered with the espresso machine, but he knows how to brew tea, so he goes about the semi-thoughtless motions of setting it on to steep before doing as he said and ringing Drew up.

Trevor has ushered himself out, exit stage right, entering the kitchen.  Jake looks over at Drew as he gives her the change she's due.  Tea is simple.  Tea is cheap.  Tea is, at a cafe, sold at a ridiculous mark-up.  It's hard to imagine Jake apologizing for that, and he doesn't.  He quirks a half-smile at her guess that the butter she gave him hardly could have ended up in that many pastries, which is true.  She liked the little croissants.  That, perhaps strangely, earns a real smile.  It's smaller than the wry one, the half-smirk one, the bemused one.  It isn't cold or thin or aloof.  But it is briefer than any other expression, a finger-snap of a moment on his face before it becomes something else.

"I wasn't aware I'd given an impression that was quite that laudatory," Jake counters, leaning on the counter while the tea infuses the hot water.  "But I do consider it valuable to stay in practice.  And if I have a reasonably nearby neighbor who knows her way around a forty-five, I figure it's best to ply her with pastries and get on her good side."

He holds up both hands.  "I'm just being honest."
And that is a lie.

Drew RoscoeTrevor vanishes into the kitchen, leaving Drew and Jake in the front of the bakery standing on opposite sides of the counter.  They make conversation while money changes hands one direction and back in the other and while tea brews as well.  Drew directed the spare dollars and coins from the broken five into whatever tip jar may be available and made herself comfortable by tucking one hip at the edge of the counter and standing leaned against it, far enough off to the side that even with her flank in Jake's direction she's still able to comfortably turn her head to watch him, to make appropriate eye contact while they spoke.

The genuine qualities of his smile were noted, particularly noticeable by how his face looked when they flashed away, but she doesn't comment on them or seem to react in any way other than the upward pull of being pleased with one's self at the right corner of her lips.

"Well, that's not too off the mark," she said in a tone that's only easily described as friendly.  "You don't have to worry, though, not unless you come skulking into my yard in the middle of the night, all shadows and suspect."

That would have been a lie a few years ago, when she was new to the world of monsters and bad guys and was too quick to assume that everyone was a danger, and therefore incredibly trigger-happy.  People who turned into her best and closest friends, allies and loved ones she had sent bullets flying toward (and into) before, after all.  These days she was steadier, both of mind hand and heart.  She was more deliberate and didn't spook nearly as easily.  Chicago had aged her, and that was why, here and now, she was beamingly pleasant but still found a way to come across as an old soul every now and again.

Jake NovakThere is no tip jar.  Mr. Novak doesn't like tip jars, either.  So whatever happens to the change happens, and he ignores it.


Drew Roscoe
"And that, Mr. Novak, is precisely why the door got answered with a gun in hand."  Without a tip jar to call home, Drew's change finds its way crumpled and jammed into her pocket.  With hands free of tasks to complete, waiting comfortably for the tea to finish steeping, Drew eased into a more comfortable position, arms crossing loose over her chest and hands tucking under her arms.

"I'm not so trigger happy anymore.  I'm out of the big city.  I think the better word for these days would be 'cautious'.  Most that I should have to worry about shooting at is foxes.  But, hey, beware of Monsters, right?"  She grinned a bit at her comment, like she was making a joke that she was used to using as an inside joke, but didn't have anybody on the inside to appreciate its reference with her.

Her tongue swiped briefly at her lips, moistening them where they felt dry, and she pressed on to the next:  "I don't know of any proper shooting ranges around here, but there's plenty of room behind my house.  I could set up targets sometime and we could place bets on who's better at their game?"

Jake NovakJake lifts his eyebrows at her answer to that.  The look is that of a challenger, but one who is admitting: touché.  He turns, lifting tea bag from tea and disposing of it, plucking a saucer from the same shelf the cup was taken from and handing it over to her.  "Let's sit a while," he says, nodding a head to one of the couches in the place.  It isn't the large sectional one near the front, near the windows, but one of those cordoned off from exterior view by a wall that juts out into the cafe, creating one of many pockets, one of many spots to make one's own.

He comes out from behind the counter then, listening to Drew talk about once being trigger happy, once living in some big city, becoming cautious.  He seems thoughtful.  She says beware of monsters, and he doesn't bat an eyelash.  "Or raccoons," he offers, apparently not 'getting it' and supplying his own, perhaps more immediate, inside joke.

Jake lowers himself onto the couch easily, lounging with as much relaxation as he might in his own home, though this isn't far from it.  He spends more time here than he does at his house.  He drapes his arm over the back of the couch, legs stretched in front of him.  "There's one near Charlottes...ville.  Charlottestown.  Whatever it is.  Not a bad one.  It's more of a gun club, so if you're not a regular they try to get chummy."
He has nothing to drink, nothing to occupy his mouth or his hands with, and does not seem averse to things like direct eye contact or physical stillness.  It would be boldness, brashness, in someone younger or someone less sure.  He simply appears not to think of self-consciousness as a possibility.  It is no longer even a hurdle to be leapt over.  To some it makes him intimidating.  To others it makes him seem solid.  Steady.  To others still, it makes him seem almost inhuman.  Too cold, too unperturbable.

But tonight, at least, there's a break in it.  It showed when Drew mentioned the miniature chocolate-filled croissants and he smiled like that, a flicker of warmth and a hint of ache.  It shows in how relaxed he seems.  When he was at her door he was almost awkward, he was so stiff.  He seems looser right now, for god knows what reason.

"I don't really go in for gambles," says the man who started a bakery in a town in the middle of nowhere that was so recently almost destroyed.  "But I'd be up for some target practice.  Might want to warn the other neighbors.  The ones that haven't run out of town."

Drew RoscoeJake is completely at home here in his bakery, and he certainly should be.  It was his, after all.  Not as in he was the manager there and no one was there to tell him what to do, but it was his.  He ran the business, built it up.  That, to Drew, explained the difference between the almost angrily awkward person that had been at her door asking for butter and the man that's comfortable on his couch sitting beside Drew, who had taken her cup and saucer of tea along with her to the corner he'd led them to.

This was his domain, his turf, and his territory.  That was something she understood and respected.
The mention of a gun's club is answered with a small laugh and a shake of her head.  "Oh, I learned my lesson about trying to join Boys Clubs a while ago.  There's no sense in it-- they tend to either treat me more delicately or try too hard to get out on a date with me.  So I just steer clear of that kind of setting."
As for the other neighbors, the ones that haven't been run out of town....

"I'll knock on some doors and let 'em know."

She doesn't comment on the going-ons in the town as of late.  She is either utterly unaware (impossible!) or feels inclined not to discuss the situation.  But then she does seem very much the kind of person who looks forward and refuses to let anything unfortunate interfere with her rose-tinted (apparently) view on the future.
"Should we set a day then?"  She leaves this question by looking at him curiously and sipping at her tea to prevent further babbling.

Jake NovakThe building was empty and damaged when he bought it.  He showed up at the meeting Sterling-Fisk held still wearing clothes paint-splattered and dusty from working alongside contractors and construction.  When one says he built it up, it should be understood that this is literal.  Everything here is his.  He hand-chose the people, the paint, the machinery.  He hand-makes everything edible here that doesn't come in a cup, and so far has hired and fired and replaced at least one assistant because she didn't suit him in his kitchen.
Territory.  Jake owns this one.  Drew doesn't need that explained.

"I can assure you, the vast majority of the people I've seen at this club, male and female, would most certainly treat you delicately and very likely hit on you."  He inclines his head as though to say but of course: "It's because you're short."

Trevor comes hesitantly out of the kitchen, holding his jacket in one hand, and Jake's eyes flick from Drew to the teenager.  He starts to say something about the register and Jake just shakes his head.  It isn't dismissive, isn't annoyed; just forestalling more yammering.  "I'll count it out.  Just drive safe; I'll see you tomorrow."
Trevor gives a small mock-salute, which wrings a wry grin from Jake, and nods to Drew.  "See you around, miss," he says to her, and heads out the front.

"Go ahead and lock it up," Jake calls after him, and Trevor glances back at the two of them, obviously making assumptions because he is seventeen, but he nods and does so.  The sign on the front door flicks from Open to Closed, the primary lock twisting before he lets himself out.  Jake is already turning back to his neighbor.  "I'm free tonight, if you're not averse to night shooting," he says with a shrug.  "Truthfully, I'm not all that concerned about neighbors.  Most of the houses I passed in between our two were empty."

Drew RoscoeThe way that Jake assured Drew that she was absolutely correct in her assumption about the gun club is met with a laugh that was full and warm, much like the cup of tea that Drew was sipping at.  Not loud, not boisterous, but solid nonetheless.  "Of course it is.  The world loves stubby legs, they can't help themselves."
The teenager comes out from the back, hesitant, and starts to (probably) ask if he should close the registers or do anything else.  Jake cuts him off, somehow without being rude about it, and tells the kid to go home.  He gives his farewell, and Drew answers it with a smile and: "Night Trevor.  Good call on the tea."

Go ahead and lock it up.

Trevor answers the... suggestion?  order?  what would you call that? by looking suspicious and assumptive but complying all the same.  So the sign is switched to closed, the lock is turned, and Jake is suggesting tonight.  Drew chuckles some at the idea and shakes her head.  "I've got no targets set up, and it's getting to be pretty late into the night.  Being out of the city has caused me to lose my night-owl schedule, and I'm in bed by ten o' clock on most nights anyway."  Her explanation is a little apologetic, mostly polite.  But where it is apologetic, it is genuinely so.  That's the trick to this girl, nothing seems to be false about her.  She seems like the kind of girl that would floor a room full of people with abrupt and out-of-place honesty if put in the right situation to do so.  She probably wouldn't even realize what she'd done.

"...Tomorrow night?"

Jake NovakAs though to check the veracity of her claim, Jake looks at Drew's legs for a moment, tipping his head, thoughtful.  Then he rolls his eyes, saying not a word and not needing to in order to make his point, and looks back at her.  "Probably a good idea," he says, ever so agreeable, ever so affable.  "I'm a bit tired myself, tonight."

A bit tired.  He doesn't mention that he's just worked an eighteen-hour day on top of an eighteen-hour day and the most he's slept was for a few hours when he locked his office door and napped just so he wouldn't end up killing Meghan, the morning barista, for breathing too loud or some fool thing like that.  He doesn't mention these facts, nor the cause of them, and truth be told, despite the extremity of his sleep deprivation, he looks reasonable.  Used to it.

But he admits that he's tired.  Probably for the best that he doesn't slap a firearm into his hand and shoot a target he can barely see in the dark.  There is simply no number of croissants that would make up for that.
Speaking of those croissants.  The little ones, the ones filled with molten dark chocolate.  There are a few, still, under a glass dome on the counter.  Drew probably saw them there.  They had a little placard, upon which was written: Lenka's Fancy.

"Tomorrow night," he confirms, with a deep incline of his head.  "I'll head over after we close, if that's all right with you.  I'll even bring snacks."

Drew RoscoeThe brown-eyed Kinfolk had been sipping at her tea intermittantly, obviously enjoying it without having to say so.  Jake no doubt knew the quality of his products, he didn't need to be informed that he had good taste.  She just let the drink warm her hands and belly in a soothing and pleasant way-- not at all like how alcohol did, that kind of warm belly was a very different sort indeed.

"Tomorrow it is."  Her smile is like a stamp on the agreement that made it official.  "I'll make sure the targets are up and there's enough light that we can actually see what the hell we're doing."  The cup is mostly finished, save for a cooled final two sips at the bottom, and Drew glances about, obviously hunting for a place for dishes to go.  With the date set she seems to have switched into 'ready to leave' mode.  It was past ten o' clock by this time, and Drew was looking forward to getting home, into slippers and pajamas, feeding the Wuggly Ump (her fish) and lounging some before bed.  Jake had announced that he was a bit tired too, and the wear on his face and shadows under his eyes only confirmed that and told Drew it would be best to let the man get some sleep before work tomorrow.

"Ah, where should this go?"  She asks after a moment rather than struggling to decide for herself where dishes belong.

Jake NovakJake laughs to that.  "I may have to leave early, then.  But I think Trevor can handle it.  He's a good kid.  And the nights are quiet around here."  He gives a half-shrug.  He's trusting; been in town a matter of weeks and he's going to trust a seventeen year old to run the shop and close up by himself during the last few hours.  Maybe he's just an optimist.

He sees her eyes casting about and sits up, reaching over to take the cup and saucer.  "I'll take care of it," he says, which has the quality of being a phrase he uses often.  There's a firmity there, a certainty, that takes no effort.  It is simply a part of him, and the words come easy.

Jake sets his feet on the floor and rises in that same motion, her cup and saucer in one hand.  "I'll walk you out," he adds, amicable as you please.  Such a good neighbor.  That nice, sort of quiet man who works too hard and owns the town bakery.  That is all he is for now, because it isn't uncommon to find men in this area who are gun enthusiasts of one kind or another.  Perhaps he's a bit boring for all that, but sometimes boring can be calming.  Boring, and normal, can be a... break.

Drew RoscoeThe cup and saucer are taken by Jake, who doesn't invade space but doesn't seem afraid of reaching toward someone to close distance if they're a second too slow for him.  Drew relinquishes the dishes to Jake's larger hands, and he stands with an offer to walk her to the door.  The Kinfolk rises along with him, offering a 'Hey, thanks,' in return for his stating that he'll handle the dishes.

She wouldn't use the words 'boring' to describe Jake on her own accord.  He was calm and collected, but she didn't know him well enough to call him predictable, and predictable was a key ingredient in being boring.  Plus she was fairly sure that there were layers beyond the calm Tall Dark Handsome Baker-man front.  Not because she thought she'd seen special glimpses of them or because she was particularly intuitive (though she actually kind of was), but because he was human, and humans, contrary to popular belief, were not all simple single-faceted creatures.

So they'll walk together to the front door, Jake on whatever work shoes he's wearing, Drew with a muted 'clck-clck' of her square boot heels on the floor.  When they get to the door and Jake has unlocked it (and probably even opened it, gentleman that he is), Drew's tugging her sweater sleeves down to cover her hands and fingers for the walk back home.  Because, well, she doesn't live far enough from Browntown to justify driving, if you ask her.  "Tomorrow night, then.  I'll take a guess at what beer you prefer."  And, with a grin, she's off before he gets a chance to ruin her guessing game.