Random State Drabbles

Potluck

The fork jabbed, more roughly than intended, into the steak, and with a few quick saws a good-sized chunk had been removed.  The blood had begun to pool out of the meat by the time Lloyd had brought it to his mouth and begun to chew.

Oliver winced and returned to his salad.

The two of them didn't mind working with one another, on a professional level.  Lloyd was an expert on logistics, which made the life of a manufacturer infinitely easier, and together their projects were done in a timely manner.

Beyond that, there was so little common ground that they often found themselves disgusted with the other.  And that was a non-issue, for the most part.  Lloyd didn't enjoy the company of pretty well anyone he worked with.  After hours, he grabbed his coat and disappeared until the next morning.  Oliver wasn't much better, and when they came back together in the morning they were refreshed enough to start again.

That was their normal routine when they were left to the devices they knew worked best.  But whenever there was a change in leadership suddenly it was felt that relations should, and could, be made stronger with a casual dinner together.

They followed the election irritably, knowing that once again they'd be stuck.

Wordlessly, Oliver picked at his food.  He had even less of an appetite than normal, seeing exactly how thoroughly drowned Lloyd's potatoes and vegetables had become in the blood of his steak.  Knowing men like that, though, that probably made his plate look all the more appetizing, as terrifying a thought as that was.

According to Ralph Lloyd wouldn't eat meat that didn't bleed back, and was actually pretty upset when he didn't get to kill it himself.

But, then again, Ralph tended to talk more about Lloyd when he was growing sick of his family.  He spoke in romantic terms about things more daring and manly than any of the rest of them would agree to be with him.  And that's where he'd gotten most of his information on Lloyd so…

The only other times he really spoke about him were when Alex was griping about a fight over this or that.  Oliver paused and wondered how much he exactly knew of the man outside of stories, complaints, and various stereotypes.  He couldn't remember the last time they'd sat down and had a conversation outside of work.  They had different stances on most issues, especially social ones, but it wasn't like a person's politics wasn't avoidable when trying to get to know someone…

Perhaps Lloyd's perceptions of him came from the same sorts of issues.  He really should make an effort to change that.

Before he knew it, Lloyd had cleared his plate and asked for the check.  An amateur at picking up the tab, he only went for his wallet when the bill presenter was placed upon the table.  By that point, Oliver's credit card was already being tucked into the pocket and handed back to the waiter.

Lloyd raided his brow and looked ready to protest, probably about having eaten more from a more expensive dish, but Oliver brushed it off.

"I insist," he said with his most gracious smile.

The look was neither more surprised nor grateful than it'd been before.  "Well, thanks.  I'll see you tomorrow, then."  He nodded, politely, as he gathered his coat and headed for the door.

Oliver had considered stopping him, but… Perhaps it'd be best to prepare first.  If he was really what they always said…

Either way, he'd do it when another election demanded there be a next time.

Dinner Bell

The term 'comfort food' was thrown around far too flippantly for Andrew's taste.  It was brushed off as something greasy and lazy, treated like a four letter world until people at best saw the table of a housewife and at worse a filthy service counter.

The problem was that, while people were happy to let the individual components speak, they had no interest in the whole.  Andrew was just the patient sort who truly took the time to listen.  He took pride in that.

They watched cooking shows too much these days, he figured.  Everyone wanted things so fancied up with imported cheeses and showy presentations, like 'chefs' with more breasts than cooking skills prepared.  And somewhere in the plating and primping they forgot that it was supposed to be about the taste of the food long before the looks of it.

Andrew busied himself with flavors slowly coaxed out of food.  His brushes were slow burners and a set of well-worn utensils, his canvas was potatoes, chicken, and all the other humble things that people scoffed at in favor of truffles and quail.

Andrew hadn't fought so hard for his heritage just to let a few pretty smiles to do away with it.  Not that everybody would understand or agree, but he wasn't really looking for 'everybody' or even 'most people'.

He had a group on his porch, then. They were the tiny little club who could still hold their heads up high when they referred to themselves as Southern.  They smiled at the dishes he brought out, happily heaped it on their plates and said to hell with taking as much time to plate something as it took to cook it.

That was worth far more than anything that was made for TV and not the dinner table.

Bragging Rights

Someone had clued Gwen into sports.  She certainly hadn't cared enough to show up when she'd knocked him out of the running back in '93.  

He assumed it was a publicist telling her that it'd be worth a lot to play off the victory.  Probably the same ones who had set her up with this custom jersey.  And the same one who seemed to have informed her about what she had done back then, because her grin was too broad for even the self-serving trade deal she'd arrived with.

"Don't you have something to say to me, Oliver?" she asked in a singing level of arrogance.

He would have brought up a lot of history, but considering her level of knowledge in hockey amounted to "hey, you won the other day" she never would have understood.

He settled for "Like that the cut of the jersey makes it look like you're servicing the team" with as polite a smile as he could manage.  He hadn't meant to slip out, usually he had more decorum.  But with what she'd done, and with the way she walked in…

"Winners tend to earn things like that, but you wouldn't  know."  She matched his grin and tapped her papers.  "Now about the wheat trade…"

He continued with the meeting, hell bent on finding and strangling whoever it was that had clued her in.