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sunspotClint won another round of Spider Solitaire. The night shift case worker had scarlet fever and Jan had beaten him at seven out of thirteen rounds of Rock Paper Scissors. So here he was, the third of four double shifts. He sipped his terrible coffee and started another round of cards.
It wasn't like he was slacking off or anything. All his paperwork was done and he wasn't supposed to leave the front desk. They kept the doors locked and had a buzzer so that anyone who came in would have to sign the logbook before they could go into the shelter part of the building. They didn't ask for full names, or even real names, but they needed to keep some kind of record. Clint manned the desk, the buzzer, and the book.
There were only two more staff members -- attendants in the sleeping area -- and a handful of volunteers in the building, plus whoever had signed in. But no one up in the centre for him to talk to.
Clint screwed himself out of winning the game and restarted with a sigh when the buzzer went off. He pressed the unlock button for the doors and minimized the game. He stood, leaning forward over the desk to greet the newcomer.
"Hey," Steve said, pink cheeked and breathless from the cold.
"Hey," Clint said.
"Is there somewhere warm I could stay for tonight?"
Clint nodded. His mouth was suddenly dry and he didn't think it had anything to do with whatever chemicals were in the swap water coffee. Wordlessly, Clint pushed the sign in book and a pen across the desk.
Steve signed with a little flourish, holding the pen out for Clint to take. When Clint grabbed onto it, Steve didn't let go. Their eyes met after a second.
"I wanted to be a police officer," Steve said seriously. "When I was a kid. You... you asked."
"I remember," Clint said. He was so goddamn thankful his voice didn't crack like he was sure it was going to. "I, uh... You can stay here tonight, we have plenty of room. But tomorrow, we can talk and if -- if you need a warm place to stay long term..."
"Tomorrow then." Steve finally released the pen and gave Clint a smile that, as fucking cliché as Clint knew it sounded, seemed to light up the room. It wasn't even a big smile; no gleaming teeth or crinkly eyes, just a quirk of the lips and the hint of dimples, and Clint had to smile in return.
As they stood on opposite sides of the table and watched each other awkwardly, both presumably trying to figure out what came between right then and tomorrow, Clint realized maybe bad coffee was a lot better than he had been giving it credit for.
It wasn't like he was slacking off or anything. All his paperwork was done and he wasn't supposed to leave the front desk. They kept the doors locked and had a buzzer so that anyone who came in would have to sign the logbook before they could go into the shelter part of the building. They didn't ask for full names, or even real names, but they needed to keep some kind of record. Clint manned the desk, the buzzer, and the book.
There were only two more staff members -- attendants in the sleeping area -- and a handful of volunteers in the building, plus whoever had signed in. But no one up in the centre for him to talk to.
Clint screwed himself out of winning the game and restarted with a sigh when the buzzer went off. He pressed the unlock button for the doors and minimized the game. He stood, leaning forward over the desk to greet the newcomer.
"Hey," Steve said, pink cheeked and breathless from the cold.
"Hey," Clint said.
"Is there somewhere warm I could stay for tonight?"
Clint nodded. His mouth was suddenly dry and he didn't think it had anything to do with whatever chemicals were in the swap water coffee. Wordlessly, Clint pushed the sign in book and a pen across the desk.
Steve signed with a little flourish, holding the pen out for Clint to take. When Clint grabbed onto it, Steve didn't let go. Their eyes met after a second.
"I wanted to be a police officer," Steve said seriously. "When I was a kid. You... you asked."
"I remember," Clint said. He was so goddamn thankful his voice didn't crack like he was sure it was going to. "I, uh... You can stay here tonight, we have plenty of room. But tomorrow, we can talk and if -- if you need a warm place to stay long term..."
"Tomorrow then." Steve finally released the pen and gave Clint a smile that, as fucking cliché as Clint knew it sounded, seemed to light up the room. It wasn't even a big smile; no gleaming teeth or crinkly eyes, just a quirk of the lips and the hint of dimples, and Clint had to smile in return.
As they stood on opposite sides of the table and watched each other awkwardly, both presumably trying to figure out what came between right then and tomorrow, Clint realized maybe bad coffee was a lot better than he had been giving it credit for.
