[people are staring. Conversations still or fall to a hush not half as quiet as the participants think they are. Distracted eyes rest on Sam, poised as he is like a dog testing the weight limit on a chain-link fence, ready to bust through and tear the journalist a new one. Said journalist (Edward T. Fresco to his publication, Eddie to his friends) watches too, still smirking, inviting the follow-through of Sam's temper because from this distance he sees the price tag attached.
Sam couldn't give less than two shits about any of it. That mild, inquiring voice just swept the anger out from under him like some verbal trapdoor. Goddamn surreal, that's what it feels like to see Wyatt outside that midnight kitchen, all those once-shadowed features now innocently lit by glowing bulbs and the sunlight streaming through his windows. Chilton's own Sundance Not-Quite-A-Kid, standing like he belongs anywhere near here. At one o' fucking clock in the afternoon.
In a cop's uniform.
What the flying fuck.
At least half of which must be written across Sam's face, because Eddie adopts a penitent's guise before he even turns around to spy Wyatt's badge. There's a quickness of response which speaks to a man with a glove compartment's worth of unpaid parking tickets.
'No, sir, no problem. Just a disagreement, and I might have upset Mr. Merlotte here. Easily solved, easily solved. I can head out the way I came.'
Words Sam only barely registers, utterly fixed on Wyatt. He's thawing past the stutter-step of his shock; the emotional whiplash will take a moment. Behind them, several eyes return to their meals.]
What - ? [Another block of glacial thought breaks free to remind Sam of his journalistic audience. He pauses, then carefully confirms:] We're fine. Is - there somethin' I can help you with?
no subject
Sam couldn't give less than two shits about any of it. That mild, inquiring voice just swept the anger out from under him like some verbal trapdoor. Goddamn surreal, that's what it feels like to see Wyatt outside that midnight kitchen, all those once-shadowed features now innocently lit by glowing bulbs and the sunlight streaming through his windows. Chilton's own Sundance Not-Quite-A-Kid, standing like he belongs anywhere near here. At one o' fucking clock in the afternoon.
In a cop's uniform.
What the flying fuck.
At least half of which must be written across Sam's face, because Eddie adopts a penitent's guise before he even turns around to spy Wyatt's badge. There's a quickness of response which speaks to a man with a glove compartment's worth of unpaid parking tickets.
'No, sir, no problem. Just a disagreement, and I might have upset Mr. Merlotte here. Easily solved, easily solved. I can head out the way I came.'
Words Sam only barely registers, utterly fixed on Wyatt. He's thawing past the stutter-step of his shock; the emotional whiplash will take a moment. Behind them, several eyes return to their meals.]
What - ? [Another block of glacial thought breaks free to remind Sam of his journalistic audience. He pauses, then carefully confirms:] We're fine. Is - there somethin' I can help you with?
...Officer.