breakfast at tiffany's

[disappearingcheshire]

drabble/2015

author: Gallo
characters: Noah, Dorian, Grier, Sascha
(Sascha belongs to Lizzy)

warm up drabble based on a conversation i had with Lizzy​ about our ocs and breakfast time invasions





“Pass the sugar, will you?”

A boy in coveralls replies with a grunt, his face buried inside a mug, and pushes the requested jar over without looking.

Across from him, a man in a suit begins scooping spoonfuls of sweetener into his own brew. On his wrist, a gold watch reads just past six; a sentiment echoed by the watery dawn trickling in through the kitchen window.

“You look like shit,” The man begins conversationally, when at last he's taken his first sip of coffee.

Blood shot eyes narrow in response, their ire only emphasized by the heavy bags and dark circles, “Fuck off.”

“Don't be rude.”

“Fine,” The boy concedes, taking a drink, “Please fuck off.”

A bark of laughter ricochets off the walls, the man's teeth white and straight as he leans in, “Testy-”

“Enough, both of you,” A woman by the stove snaps, cutting their argument short with a shuffle of pan that fills the air with smoke. In a sink nearby, a charred skillet and melted spatula are the only remains to what might have once been eggs.

“Behave,” She jabs her fork toward the man in the suit, who leans away with an arch of silver brow as grease flings out with the motion.

“And you-” she turns, eying the youngest of their trio. Her ferocity ebbs, just slightly, as she takes in the haggard face beneath a mess of hair and pushed up goggles, “Dorian's right. You look like hell.”

Snorting into his drink, the boy – Noah - salutes a tattooed finger, “You're both ambassadors among men.”

“Don't get smart, brat. We're bonding.”

Despite the implied threat, she drops a plate onto the table with a clink, gesturing to their utensils. As she returns to her post, the two men eye the withered remains of bacon, blackened and pungent, before turning as one to busy themselves with their cups.

“Just a rough work shift,” The cleaner finally admits, visibly sizing up the coffee pot. Across from him, Dorian smirks, drumming his fingers thoughtfully.

“Need a little stress relief? I could help.”

“Drop dead.”

“That isn't a 'no'.”

A clatter of steel can't quite mask the exasperated amusement in his sister's scoff - “how is that not a 'no'?” - or the irritated scrape of Noah's chair as he gets up for a refill.

“Why are you even here?” He scowls, pouring himself another share of caffeine.

For the first time since arriving, Dorian frowns, crossing his arms, “You're not the only one allowed to freeload.”

“First of all-” The younger boy begins, reaching down by his chair to rustle through a plastic bag and produce a small box, “I brought donuts. Ergo, not freeloading. And secondly-”

Cutting off the retort with a look, he slides back into place “Not what I meant. You're never out this early.”

“Kid has a point, Dori,” Grier throws in as she sinks into one of the open chairs, “Shouldn't you be in bed still or nursing one of your boy-toys through a hangover?”

Interest suddenly stuck on the pages of a neglected newspaper, the elder shifts, clearing his throat, “That's none of your business.”

“Since when?”

“I don't tell you everything,” He mutters, shooting a moody glance to his disbelieving kin.

“Hah!”

Energized by the turn of events, Noah grins around his mug, a sharp display of teeth, “I knew it. You're hiding.”

“I'm not hiding,” But the retort comes from behind the shield of a gazette, with too much petulance and not enough eye contact.

“Oh christ, you can't be serious – ”

“I don't want to talk about it -”

“Wimp.”

“Listen, kid, I'm not above taking you over my knee -”

“I'd like to see you try, Grandpa -”

“Dori, I can't believe you've sunk so low –”

“Don't tempt me, I swear to god-”

“- what kind of trainwreck -”

“- you can't even kick out a one night stand -”

“ - exiled from your own apartment -”

“I said I don't want to talk about it-”

“Oh please - ”

“ - open your mouth again, brat -”

“ - don't take it out on the kid - ”

“ - spitting teeth -”

“ - fuck yourself-”

“What the hell is going on?”

Three figures freeze in tandem, turning as one to the new arrival. The silence is thunderous, the crescendo of their bickering stamped out by the accented shout still bouncing off the linoleum.

“Oh. You're awake.”

Hanging half way over the table, throat circled by large hands and his own palm shoved over Dorian's face, it's probably not one of his better openers. Beside them, Grier slowly brings down the skillet she'd picked up again, foot braced halfway on a seat.

The tension thickens.

In any other circumstance, the array of emotion cycling over Sascha's face as he stands in the doorway, rumpled and harassed, might have been comedic. Instead, the darkening of brow as he glances from the ruined dishes in his sink to the toppled chairs on his floor, is nothing short of terrifying.

“How did you-”

Coffee drips loudly off the end of the table, its mug cracked, as overhead the fire alarm begins to shrill, the toaster coughing smoke around a forgotten bagel.

“Sash-”

“Get out!”

They all jump at the yell, watching in various states of fight or flight as the arms dealer searches for words, opening and closing his mouth, before erupting into loud, snarling refrains of his mother tongue.

“We saved you a plate-”

“-brought you-”

“Out, out, out!”

When he reaches for a drawer, presumably to grab for a gun, they scatter like roaches, shameless and with enough wits to know better than to stick around for a translation.