Gary's Galley

“So how's married life treating your girl?” Trig asked Gary, seeing as he was standing there looking at her and neither of them had much else to do.

“Good. They're really happy. Glad she found a nice boy.”

“Yeah.”

Trig shoveled down a few mouthfuls of food while she tried to think of something else to say to him. She often noticed that most of the other folks sitting around the counter never seemed real happy about the plates that got put in front of them. Word around was that Gary couldn't cook for shit and anyone with money ate up at the hotel. Which would explain why you never see Doc Preston or any of the scientists eating at the Galley.

She, on the other hand, was never real squeamish about her food. Throw back whatever he could put in front of her, much to the wonderment (and occasional disgust) of various patrons. Sometimes she even made a few caps off the “bet you won't eat this” game.

“You think anymore about training as a guard? Now that everyone's out as caravaners, they'll need a few more around here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Trig tapped her non-fork bearing hand on the counter absentmindedly. “Still thinking.” She glanced from her plate to the marketplace door a few times. “I'm pretty sure Harkness knows how lazy I am. Don't think he'd trust me.”

Gary shrugged and wiped his hands on his apron. “You'll never know until you try.”

Trig grimaced. “Thanks. Never heard that one before.” The cook rolled his eyes at her and moved off to serve another customer. Trig poked at her food before checking the diner's clock, and leaning over to scan the corridor of shops again.

The blackened match clenched between her fingers earned a low curse from the female scavver, somehow muttered without the cancer stick balanced precariously on her lips falling to the floor. She pulled a fresh match from the small pack and swiped it against the side, looking all too triumphant as it lit and she held it to the cigarette. Smoking was not a habit she often indulged in, cigarettes were as good as caps in some places and she didn't like to waste them, but sometimes she just needed that nicotine fix when she was particularly on edge.

The matchbox and cigarette pack were tucked into one of the many pockets of her coat, and she gave a cheeky grin to Gary before tugging one of the beat up black ash trays closer. "Relax, I'm using the tray. I know better than to piss off the people that make your food." That was saying something, because ninety nine percent of the time Teagan didn't much care WHO she was pissing off.

Exhaling slowly she watched the faint plume of smoke spiral towards the ceiling, only looking away when Gary set the dish down in front of her, gaze daring her to comment. She lifted her hands, palms out in an expression of innocence (though the cigarette was held in one hand), "I'm not gonna say anything! At this point I'll eat anything that's not Iguana Bits or Mole Rat meat without complaint." A faux shudder ran down her spine at the mere mention and she stabbed at her food absently with her fork, her cig resting on the edge of the ashtray.

Chewing thoughtfully, Teagan wrinkled her nose at the rusted steel wall before her.

She'd only been back in Rivet City for two days. . .

She was already tired of it.

Trig drummed a little rhythmless beat on the counter as she chewed, absentmindedly scanning the room again. The minute hand of the clock moved forward to signal more than five-after and she frowned. Gary offered to refill her drink once he was done serving the other woman, and glanced up at the clock when he noticed her staring.

“I've never seen you be on time for a single thing besides lunch, and yet you're always here at ten of.”

“I have my habits,” Trig muttered.

She waved away a wisp of cigarette smoke from the patron a couple seats down, and gave her the once over. The girl was kind of familiar – one of those in and out kind of deals, never sticking around. It was mostly the hair that she recognized.

Trig extracted a couple packs of smokes from her pocket and set them next to her plate.

“You need any more of those?” she asked, leaning over just a little. “I've got regulars and menthols if that's your thing.”

The radio crackled softly as the last notes of an ancient ballad petered out.

"That was the First Lady of music herself, Miss Ella Fitzgerald, telling us that “Into Each Life, a Little Rain Must Fall.” Ain’t that the truth sister. Ooh, Capitol Wasteland! This is Three Dog, Awooo! Coming to you loud and proud from Galaxy News Radio! Ahh yes, time for the news.
It seems the town of Grayditch has gone quiet. Residents haven’t come out to trade with the caravans and those who try to make contact have been met with… silence. So if you’re out by Grayditch, you may want to pop in and see what’s what.
Until next time, this is Three Dog, Awwoooooo! And you’re listening to Galaxy News Radio, bringing you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. Now, some music!"