Bridge Over Troubled Waters (Lori/Rupert)

He hadn’t stopped to watch the watch the sunset. He wasn’t that romantic. He wasn’t dolefully eyeing the waters and thinking something stupid, either; he wasn’t that pathetic yet. He was just staring after his damn hat. Under the bland florescence of the bridge lights and the brief blinding bursts of headlights, it traced a lazy spiral down to the black currents of the East River.

July 27, 2011. It was his birthday. It was his birthday, and he had a rash from the damn drug, and he’d just lost his hat.

He was not drunk enough for this, but he was working on it.

A bicyclist went by. He chimed his bell, giving Rupert a split second to throw himself against the guardrail before he got creamed by the kind of guy who wears reflective tape on his pants.

A guardrail, a jumper’s fence, and he still almost followed the hat. How a phazer doesn’t just fall through the damn ground was anyone’s guess. This was even lamer than the brat’s power—at least with breasts, he’d gotten free drinks. He stepped back from the edge, and patted down the front of his suit jacket as high heels, so unwisely alone after dark, clicked his way. Where—ah. The inner pocket. That would make too much damn sense.

>> “Rupert?

The flask clattered through his fingers. Literally. It scuffled over to a stop halfway between them, awkwardly crouching in the streetlight, a weathered sticker on its side eloquently greeting the blond with a smile, and a birdie.

Rupert stared at her. Then he opened his mouth, like he always did.

“Well look at you, all dressed up like something special.” He mimed a hat tip, with a hat that was no longer there. “Evening, Ms. Faust.”

---

A bell rang over the door.

“Cash, she says. Be still my beating heart.” He was twenty-four. His hair was all Italian: little black curls, cut close. He wore old jeans and a new Bruce Springsteen T. He had a bottle of scotch in one hand, and a police badge casually flipped open in the other. “It’s a crime to sell to minors. Or didn’t your boss tell you?”

The clerk’s face was just as red, but Rupert had a hunch it was for a different reason. “I—”

“Yeah. Heard it. Ring this up for me, would you?” He slipped the scotch on the counter with a twenty, and stared down at the girl.

She had long blonde hair. A red corset. Little white tail. How precious.

“Those rabbit ears really make you look taller,” Rupert said. The smile was on the house.

“Ever the concerned citizen, Lori.”

She hadn’t changed one damn bit. Except for the way she dressed—that was new. She really was dolled up like someone special, from high heels that could stab a man’s heart out to a dress that most girls would save for a—

Rupert snerked. “What, did you escape out the bathroom window, sugar?”

Her taste in men always was dodgy. That sure explained the sour look on her face. And that walk like she was going to kick every man, woman, and car off this bridge. Not to mention the hoighty-toighty way she crinkled her little rabbit nose up at his scotch. Not good enough for her anymore, huh? Not for a lady of her station. Superior now, wasn’t she?

He plucked the flask out of her hand, with a thank-you-ma’am smile. His fingers brushed against hers with a static jolt that ran both ways.

The moral high ground. He'd lost it somewhere.

---

He drove a red El Camino with a white stripe down the middle. The rust by its wheels had been spray-painted into submission, but the shade he’d used didn’t quite match up. The suspension creaked as loudly as the stereo as it bounced its way over the broken pavement.

The potholes were getting bigger. The houses were getting smaller. Rupert pulled over to the side of the road, double-checking his directions by streetlight.

At five to seven, the El Camino rolled into the florescent lights of the gas station. Rupert hung out his window with a grin.

“Nice house. Lived here long?”

He had a buy-one beer in one hand, a get-one in the other, and a blonde on his lap tearing into a turkey leg the size of his head. They never did find a blanket. Somehow, he wasn’t about to cry his eyes out.

“So I’m standing there thinking, ‘Crap, this guy is dead.’ He’s just floating in the pond, butt naked—and we’re talking a foot of water. It takes a special kind of genius for that, even if you’re talking drunks. So I say to Weston, ‘Okay, do you want to get a stick, or should I?’ when this guy just shoots up, and starts screaming. Weston about sh—”

“I said, good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” Second time around, the guy behind the stage’s microphone got a round of hoots and hollers, and a bit more attention. Rupert broke off. “Thank you to our last performers, Watson and Crick. I hear they’ve got a stand set up for CDs—that right boys? All right, then. Now, I’m not a man of long speeches, so lets get this mike turned over to the man you’ve all been waiting for. A man after all our hearts: the Church of Humanity’s very own Brother Rick Astley!”

Hands a bit full, Rupert added his own quick whoop to the hollers and applause. He was hoping for a chance to get back to his story, but no such luck: the couple next to him, on their red-white-and-blue blanket, sshed him for even thinking about it. Rupert bided his time. This guy was an entertaining speaker: he had to give him that. Very animated.

A few minutes in, Rupert leaned forward to whisper a sweet question in Lori’s ear: “…What’s a ‘mutie’?”