MY TELL-TALE HEART

IS A HAMMER IN MY CHEST, CUT ME A SILK TIE TOURNIQUET. I DON’T EVEN KNOW ME.

If there’s one thing Wren never quite gets tired of, it’s making people smile.

He doesn’t try to, really, but often he wonders if he’s a nicer person than he lets himself believe. He’s so focused on not becoming his father that he forgets that he’s his own person- friendly enough, with a contagious smile to boot. When the waitress smiles at him, the flush in his cheeks deepens.

That’s the one thing his siblings had learned to master that he’d never been quite good at- controlling his own expressions. He turns his face back to the table, attempting to mask the pink flooding his neck. He shrugs off his dark hoodie, hoping to mask the flush as a simple heat-based reaction- maybe it’s too warm in the diner. But he’s not a very good actor- not when he doesn’t need to be, and he’s almost relieved when the woman retreats to the kitchen.

Maybe it’s his accent. Demure, slow, careful- a country boy in a city where he certainly doesn’t belong. He wonders how his little sister’s accent tends to affect her life. Apparently, not very much- she’s a respected designer in her firm, or so he’s told, and for the most part people tend to take her seriously. It’s hard, in his job, at least, to rough someone up while sounding like Forrest Gump. People take him for granted, a southern-american idiot with mush for brains.

But he doesn’t dwell on it, not really- it’s three in the morning, after all, and those three-in-the-morning thoughts can really get a man down if he lets them. Instead he twists the silver ring that rests on the first finger of his right hand, a gift from his older brother that he hadn’t taken off in years- a simple silver band with the letter W engraved on the side. After several moments of this, he looks up and brushes his light hair away from his forehead. The diner is quiet- quieter, at least, than the bar he’d just come from. He’d spent the last thirty minutes past closing digging in pockets and calling emergency contacts- there were at least ten drunken men and women unable to get themselves home in their state of sobriety, or lack thereof.

The diner isn’t very large, not from what Wren can see, so he hopes the waitress can hear him when he says, ”And get yourself something, too. On me.” He’d worked in food-service too- it was a punishable offense to eat on the job without first paying for it like everyone else. He knows some places are quite lax with that policy, but Wren hasn’t ever been here and he doesn’t want to make any assumptions. Plus, the woman who’d served him looked like she was just as in need of a cup of coffee and a pick-me-up as he felt and he would’ve felt regrettably awkward if she joined him at the table and he was the only one eating. He pulls his legs in close, knees bumping the table as he does so. Sometimes he wishes they’d make taller tables in establishments like this- he values his knees as much as anything, and short tables don’t quite do him justice.



JOANNA DYER ;; “i embarrassed myself and i regret every decision i’ve ever made but i can’t go back on that shit now so i might as well buy you some food!”

MY TELL-TALE HEART

IS A HAMMER IN MY CHEST, CUT ME A SILK TIE TOURNIQUET. I DON’T EVEN KNOW ME.

Once the initial embarrassment has worn off, Wren begins to think that he’s perfectly justified for acting strange. After all, it is three in the morning, and he’s ordering a meal instead of going home to sleep. He’s certifiably exhausted, and if the bags beneath his eyes aren’t proof enough, the heavy-set of his shoulders and the way he can’t seem to get his head up should be dead giveaways to his mental state.

But he’s the one who offered to make small-talk, so he’s the one who needs to follow through with his promise. Thanking her for the coffee with a nod, he pulls the white ceramic mug towards him and curls his hands around it- even though he’d shucked off his jacket, he’s fairly chilly. His hands, at least, appreciate the warmth, and as he listens to her introduce herself, he wonders how many times he’s walked past this diner without a second thought in between.

”Wren,” he tells her with an easy smile. ”I work at the, uh, bar right up the street. Just closed for the night.” He says. Wren brings his coffee to his mouth, sipping it carefully. He’s far too familiar with hot coffee to be normal- the skin of his chest aches with the memory, and Wren adjusts himself uncomfortably in his seat, pulling his legs closer so his knees aren’t knocking with the waitress’s.

”Don’t know why I stopped here,” he admits, almost bashful. ”Glad I did, though.” he assures her with a smile. ”Smells really good.” He’s opening his mouth to say something else when a bell goes off near the kitchen. Wren turns his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he waves at the kitchen-worker through a narrow window behind the main counter. The chef slides two plates of food across the counter, and Wren motions for the waitress to stay where she is as he shimmies himself out of the booth and crosses the diner in a few strides. He thanks the chef with a smile and a wink and picks up the plates.

After a moment, Wren is sliding back into the booth, and this time his knees do connect briefly with the waitress’s. He sets her plate in front of her and moves his mug aside to put down his own. Once he’s settled again, he almost wants to wait for Joanna to begin eating until he starts eating- but he’s far too hungry to ignore his rumbling stomach, and he’s fairly sure that she won’t quite care. He pops a few fries into his mouth and leans back, nodding. After he’s finished chewing, he lets out a sigh. ”So,” he starts, hoping beyond hope that he doesn’t sound like a douchebag, ”How long you been here?”

JOANNA DYER ;; hes just digging himself into a hole

MY TELL-TALE HEART

IS A HAMMER IN MY CHEST, CUT ME A SILK TIE TOURNIQUET. I DON’T EVEN KNOW ME.

Joan looks surprised to see him getting up to retrieve the food, and after a moment of thought he can’t quite blame her for it. He supposed he’d be equally as surprised if a stranger hopped behind the bar and began to make drink while Wren was working a shift, and for a moment Wren considers offering her an apology- but then she turns her attention to her fries, and all bewilderment is lost in coffee grounds and salted fingertips.

Wren regards the hamburger on his plate with marked hesitation- he couldn’t very well hold conversation with an entire sandwich in his mouth, and he’d more than likely end up taking half of it home for later anyway. Instead of climbing that mountain, he picks up his coffee and sips at it with great care.

Five years, huh? About the time that his sister had gotten here, if he wasn’t mistaken. He’s about to ask her if she knows Aggie when she lays another question on the table- and, amused, he smiles. ”That obvious, huh? Don’t get a ton of Alabamian accents around here, I’d imagine.” He looks down at his coffee cup, swirling it in his hands absentmindedly. ”Been here a little less than six months. Not long at all, all things considered.” He takes another sip of his coffee, then sets it down and swaps it for a few fries. Once he’s done chewing, he adds, ”Came here to be closer to my sister. Mom flaked, so-” he shrugs. ”Moved North. Figured starting fresh was my best move.”

He’d started working for the revolution five months ago, but he doesn’t tell her that. He can already feel the caffeine working through his system, and he pulls his legs back again, accidentally bumping the tabletop. ”Sorry,” he mutters, straightening himself out. God, do they make these booths any bigger?

Wren leans back and rubs his eyes with closed fists, and for a moment he looks almost childlike, a little boy who’d stayed up too late.

”You oughta come to the bar sometime.” he tells her, tilting his head. ”Nice little place.” Of course, he doesn’t tell her that it’s the money-laundering front of the revolution, but white-lies can’t hurt- from time to time.

JOANNA DYER

MY TELL-TALE HEART

IS A HAMMER IN MY CHEST, CUT ME A SILK TIE TOURNIQUET. I DON’T EVEN KNOW ME.

Is she-

Is she-

Flirting with him?

Her coy smile, the tilt of her head, the offhanded “Is it? I might just have to, if you’re there.” Something in her tone sets off a time bomb in his chest and his trigger-happy blood vessels send a blush raging from his collar all the way up to his ears. Thankfully, they’ve decided to swerve away from his cheeks, but his ears are as red as freshly-painted fire engines, and he finds himself suddenly very interested in his food.

For someone so good with his words, he certainly doesn’t know how to take what he dishes. He lifts his mug and takes a long swallow, for once relishing the warmth that slides down his throat, and he’s certainly silent for a few moments as he tries to regain his emotional bearings. ”Yeah,” is all he can think to say, a picture of perfect intelligence. After a moment, he realizes that she’s tucked her legs underneath her, and mercifully, he allows himself to stretch out, his knees practically groaning with the effort.

Once he manages to find breath in his lungs once more, he sets down his coffee and switches back to his fries. ”That would be nice,” he breathes. ”Usually the only interaction I ever get is askin’ people if they want a refill. And callin’ emergency contacts for people who can’t get themselves home.” Thinking about it now, his job doesn’t seem all that pleasant- at least, not the bartending job. ”But yeah,” he says, daring a glance up through dark eyelashes. ”Might be a lot nicer if I had a friend to stop by.”

And then, eager to redirect the conversation, he asks, ”But no bars, huh? What made you decide on this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely to the empty expanse of the diner. ”Opportunity, or availability, or…?”

JOANNA DYER

MY TELL-TALE HEART

IS A HAMMER IN MY CHEST, CUT ME A SILK TIE TOURNIQUET. I DON’T EVEN KNOW ME.

He just can’t seem to get comfortable in the booth.

And it’s not his legs that are bothering him- it’s the conversation that he’d never expected to have in the wee hours of the night, it’s the redness of his ears that won’t go away, it’s the way that the waitress is being open about herself, when Wren would rather not tell her that he cracks skulls for an underground revolution as a side-gig. Mulling over his thoughts over the last ounces of coffee in his mug, he wonders absently if the waitress can tell that he’s not quite who he says he is.

He certainly doesn’t look the part of a bartender, reserved charm or not. He’s well past six feet with a decent set of muscle mass to boot- it’s not like he gets as big as he is pouring drinks. His tired mind supplies him with an alternative- everyone can work out, you dummy, there’s a gym down the street- and he almost smiles, but he catches himself before it happens. He'd look like an idiot, smiling about nothing as he puts away the basket of fries in front of him. 

Wren had certainly kept his physique up from his previous job- he'd been a mechanic before he'd ever been a bartender, and people from his stretch of town in Alabama hadn't exactly driven the smallest cars. He'd spent his youth and some years of his adulthood lugging around boxes of heavy parts and formidable machinery. Even then, though, he hadn't been as large as he is now- he'd been the same height, granted, but he'd been less toned and more wiry, like a twig just waiting to be snapped. 

But he feels strange to be lying to this woman, of all people. And he’s not even lying, not really- he’s just omitting certain truths that he doesn’t deem necessary for public consumption. He finishes off the remainder of his fries, nodding mechanically as she fills him in on her current work-situation, and he finds, almost embarrassed, that he’d absorbed none of the information she’d laid out for him.

Huh.

Maybe he’ll be able to get away with it- it is three in the morning, after all. He’s got every right to zone out every once in a while. Wren clears his throat and sits up, propping his forearms on the table absentmindedly. ”Back home?” he offers helpfully (thank goodness he’d caught it). ”Where’s home?”

JOANNA DYER ;; hes so fucking sTUPID

MY TELL-TALE HEART

IS A HAMMER IN MY CHEST, CUT ME A SILK TIE TOURNIQUET. I DON’T EVEN KNOW ME.

North Bend, Washington.

Wren hasn’t been here long, (at least, not long enough to really familiarize himself with the area) but he recognizes the name enough to nod with remembered empathy. ”Not much a drive,” He guesses carefully, taking his coat from the seat and slipping it back over his shoulders. It’s not cold in the diner, but the added warmth against his arms is enough to send blood rushing back into his ears (or maybe it’s the way she’s looking at him, hooded eyes and head propped absentmindedly on her hand like he’s the most interesting thing she’s come across so far that day. Of course, he thinks, he can’t quite blame her- it is three in the morning, and she’s got nothing to do except hang out with a lonely bartender.)

North Bend. He’d passed through there on his way to Seattle, hadn’t he? Quaint little place, just about as big as the town he’d grown up in. If Bentwood could even be considered a town.

And that look on her face when she’d mentioned her siblings-

Wren’s job is to read people, to take an educated guess as to their intentions and thoughts and act on those guesses lest they turn out to be enemies of the revolution. And clearly her siblings mean something to her, and he almost wants to ask her how she does it- to wonder how she still managed to love them so fiercely, even at a distance. It reminds him of his brother and his sister- how dissonance and dysfunction had separated them long before distance had ever been a significant factor.

Wren’s cheek still stings with the memory of the slap that Aggie had laid across his face when she’d showed up to pick Nikki up out of a puddle of his own drool. He frowns. Hopefully Joan has better luck with her own siblings.

”Siblings, huh?” he asks. ”How old are they?”

JOANNA DYER ;; hhhhhhh