Coffee? Tea? How About Me? (Brennan/Aristide)

[Aristide "7Sins" Church]

Sounds, Aristide had decided, were important and illustrious things. Anywhere and everywhere a body went; sound was an ever-constant, ever-present companion. Take this diner for instance, to the naked eye from outside it seemed quiet, serene; an elderly couple were tucked away in the corner, at peace with their cups of coffee, one waitress stood at the register, tallying up the amount of filters she would need to make it through the week.

It all seemed so silent, so quiet, so...peaceful. However, to Aristide, it was almost exactly the opposite. Even now, he could hear the "drip drip" of a leaky sink in the cook's kitchen, the constant droning noise of a drip coffee maker as it poured out caffeinated brew, the slight slurping of hot liquid as it passed over geriatric lips, the lilting hum of an old heater as it chugged along, struggling to fulfill its duty. Really, if you thought about it, it was enough to drive a body crazy, absolutely crazy.

And don’t even get him started on the absurdity of its name, “Royal Diner.” Still, the place had its comforts, he supposed, as did all the other places he had been. Aristide, to be blunt, had been scouting, searching, exploring, probing, whatever you wished to call it, he was doing it. The quarry of his expedition of sorts was a bit more…unique than what your average person might be looking for. It was unconventional, that much is certainly true, and, to most societies, extremely, extremely frowned upon. Aristide was going to kill someone.

That someone was, as of right now, currently unknown, extremely amorphous and the man had been hitting up diners, libraries, tea shops and furniture stores for the last month as he searched and searched and searched. When he found him/her, whoever that poor, unfortunate soul (at least the person would label oneself as such) would be, he believed he would simply…”know.” This perhaps was the most blurry and unsuccessful area of instruction that his mentor, his master, his paragon had participated in with Aristide and he was still painfully aware that he did not fully understand, fully comprehend and this, more than anything else before that, is what pained him the most, is what tortured him the most.

Waving over the waitress, he gave her a disarming, even charming smile as he asked for a cup of coffee; fat free milk in place of cream and half a packet of real sugar (none of that artificial junk). As he the cup of coffee reached him and was brought to his lips, Church frowned as he set the cup back down; yep, it was final, this diner was obviously not the place he would find “the one.” It had bad coffee, loud, intolerable noises and hadn’t had much traffic in the past hour beside the pair of old folk, then again it was nearly eleven at night; he probably should have gone home hours ago, yet something had held him back.

Rising from his chair he was greeted by the soft tingling of that tell-tale bell, announcing the arrival of a new person; turning, the cup of bad coffee still in hand, his eyes were met by the sight of a pair of exquisite cheekbones, a surprising strong, but attractive, jaw and a flushed set of cheeks, no doubt a resultant of the December air. Raising one brow, he openly scoped the woman out; to the casual observer he would probably be labeled a “pig,” but there was no lust in his look, no, no, the eager excitement that bloomed in his chest (which he hid of course) was a product of one single, solitary thought. This might be the one.

Taking a calming breath, he masked the fact that he had been about to leave by casually setting his cup of coffee back into its rightful place on the saucer that had been brought with it. Choosing to now ignore the newcomer, he turned sharply and made his way off towards the restroom; a perfectly normal enough activity, yes? With any luck she’d still be here when he came out…if not, then it just was not meant to be, was it?

::OOC::
Word Count: 721 or so
Aristide's Attire - For the record, I LOVE "The Mentalist"
Comments: Rawr.

[Dr. Temperance Brennan]

Brennan was absolutely starved. If the loud growling of her stomach didn't prove it, then the hunger pains inside it did. On top of that, she was nearing exhaustion, and food gives you energy, right? So she'd decided the only solution (besides going home and crawling into a comfortable bed) was to eat something.

Her and her friends loved The Royal Diner, and it was conveniently on the way home and therefore Brennan's first choice for food.

The frozen December air gave in to a warm, comfortable restaurant as she pulled the door open and listened to the familiar tingle of the bell above the door. A shiver ran down Brennan's spine at the sudden change in temperature, but she was way too starved to even notice. The anthropologist surveyed the area absently, a pair of blue eyes sliding over the different people.

Brennan took a seat in a cozy-looking booth and grabbed a menu from the table in front of her. She decided on a large salad, praying the size would live up to her hopes. Brennan called over the waitress and politely ordered her food, hoping as the woman walked away that she would be back soon. Since the place wasn't too busy, she guessed it wouldn't be too long a wait.

[Aristide "7Sins" Church]

One...two...three minutes passed without any excitement. Back pressed against the door, Aristide had spent the time in quiet, solemn meditation, bracing his mind, his body and whatever remained of his soul for the task ahead of him. Here and now would be where he decided if this woman, this female, this specimen of the human race would be...what is the word? Worthy? No...no... Suitable, perhaps? For his purpose.

Moving over to the sink, he washed his hands, despite having done nothing to dirty them, but it was an awfully hard habit to break and not one he desired to be lost; therefore, he had entered a bathroom so he was going to wash his hands before he left.

Kicking the dryer with one foot, the hot air it spewed out quickly doing its job, which gave him a little time to think, to devise a plan. In his current attire he could be a number of things, which made his creation of a on-the-spot identity that much easier.

Exiting the bathroom, he found the woman who had entered with ease; she'd seated herself and had just finished ordering by the looks of it. Perfect, absolutely perfect. Now he didn't even have to keep track of time during this encounter, he'd just leave when the food returned. Walking forward, he snagged his coffee as he adopted the calm, confident step of Jane Matthews, a struggling writer and investor.

Sliding his tush into the seat across from Brennan, he set the cup of coffee down on the table with a slight excess of force, just enough to make the porcelain clink jump out to the far edges of the quiet place. "Do you Washington folk really call this coffee?"

The question leapt out at Brennan, a strong note of confidence and, perhaps, arrogance in the man's voice denoting that no matter what answer she gave, he probably wouldn't really care and would, most likely, argue over the matter until he was blue in the face and gasping for his next breaths. This, of course, was purposely put there... after all, he wasn't Aristide Church right now, he was Jane Matthews; a petty, ignorant, abrasive and irresponsible fool of sorts, the kind of fool that others can't help but let their real side reveal themself to. Not that facade they tossed up when society's eyes were upon them, judging them or weighing them, but the real them, the genuine them. Under pressure, under an attack, humans were in the truest, most pure form of their personality and this, this form was what Aristide was interested in as he sat across from Dr. Temprance Brennan. This was how he would primarily base his decision on whether to kill her or not...

::OOC::
Word Count: 466 or so

[Dr. Temperance Brennan]

A small clink in the space across from her snatched her thoughts away from her. She looked up to meet a pair of prominent blue-green eyes.

"It doesn't go by any other name," Brennan replied casually, folding her arms on the table.

[Aristide "7Sins" Church]

"It doesn't go by any other name,"

A sharp response, but not razor sharp, not cutting in the least, which was peculiar. The woman's answer was that of one with their hackles up, but yet she was deceptively calm, amazingly unriled.

An amused smile cropped up on Aristide's face as he raised the coffee, which he had just bashed, to his lips, taking a small sip. "I beg to differ, actually."

He paused a moment, awaiting some sort of visceral reaction, but not nearly long enough for a vocal retort. "Often referred to as a 'cup of joe', 'java', 'jamoke' or even 'murk' in some regions, coffee, in that light, is a rather boring, uncharasmatic name that leaves a body...desiring." The amused smile had now shifted to a smirk and he peered down at the cup of coffee in front of him. "In this coffee's case that desire is very corporal and simple; after all, I just want it to taste better."

Seeming to be entertained by his own comments, Aristide's fingers drummed restlessly upon the handle of the mug in front of him; would she laugh, would it go over her head? It was all about reactions, reactons, reactions and, oh yes, reactions.

[Dr. Temperance Brennan]

Brennan was surprised she wasn't thinking like that herself. Was she really that tired? However, she had to chuckle at his simple desire. She often felt the same about the coffee here. It seemed like the only fault in the cozy restaurant. The food was great, the waiters kind...but they couldn't handle a simple cup of coffee. It amused Brennan to no end.

"I believe others who come here have that desire in common with you," Brennan joked lightly with the stranger, curious as to why he'd even decided to chat with her in the first place. There were plenty of more exciting-looking people around in her opinion, and she was positive most of them were better with social skills than she was.

Brennan tucked a piece of auburn hair behind her ear nonchalantly, lost in thought about the subject.

[Aristide "7Sins" Church]

Restless fingers began to drum on the edge of the table's surface; Aristide, no matter what "persona" he was supposedly donning, never coped with inactivity well. Sure, he could sit in a diner for hours simply watching people come in and out, appearing to do nothing, but in reality he was doing a lot of things. However, here, talking to this woman, any moment not doing anything was just exactly that, doing nothing, a waste of time.

"I believe others who come here have that desire in common with you."

Common courtesy suggested he should chuckle here, perhaps even smile, but he'd grown a bit impatient, a bit angry to be honest and he chose to ignore that for now. He thrust one gloved (for he couldn't just show the whole world his tattoes, could he?) hand across the table towards the woman, silently demanding a handshake as his voice rolled out from his mouth, "Jane Matthews."

The name was almost whispered, completely audible, but said with a softness as though if it were said any louder something in the room would break; everything after that was said with that same bolsterous confidence as before. "I'm searching for some muse in regards to a novel i'm writing." Suddenly, a thought surged through Aristide, a new thought, an enlightening one; he knew this woman. Dr. Temperance Brennan was here name, a bit of a famous author of sorts, yes, it was certainly her; still, he had to be dead certain and, whether it be luck or by mere chance, he had now incidentally created a window of opportunity for himself.

"Any tips I could glean off a writer such as yourself?" Smooth, flawless, she had nothing to suspect from this question nor the motives behind it; to the world, to her, he probably just appeared to be "Jane Matthews," a sympathetic and struggling author-to-be. Damn Aristide, sometimes you're just too good.

[Dr. Temperance Brennan]

Brennan's hand met the offered one in a handshake, a small, yet respectful smile snaking its way into her features. The fact that he didn't react to her small joke left her wondering if she'd even told it right, but she was fairly sure she had, as hanging around Booth had taught her a lot. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Matthews," she responded.

Interest sparked in Brennan's azure-hued eyes at the mention of a novel. It made sense to her now why Mr. Matthews had chosen her to chat with instead of any other equally as interesting person in the restaurant. She'd never given any advice about being an author before, therefore she had no idea whether she was any good at it or not.

"Writing is a job like any other. Try to educate yourself about it. No, that doesn’t mean you have to be a literature major in college. It means you should read writers’ resource books and become knowledgeable about how the publishing business works. It's a lot to know, but there really is no shortcuts when it comes to becoming a published author." Brennan chose her words carefully, as if the advice she gave would offend Mr. Matthews.

[Aristide "7Sins" Church]

"Writing is a job like any other..."

Blah...blah...blah. Unimportant dribble, useless, pretentious blathering. It all went in one ear (though Aristide would have preferred to even stop it doing that) and dropped right out the next. His hands shifted to his lap where he folded them and let them come to rest.

"Interesting...interesting. I'll keep that in mind." The lie, like everything else, was flawlessly said, though his words were a bit shallowly picked, he had managed to eliminate any obvious "tells" as people sometimes called them for lies had become an intricate and important part of his life. Still, it was enough of this play acting, this dancing, he dived right into his next question, unable to mask his eagerness to hear the answer that was clear on his face, "Do you like your life, Dr. Temperance Brennan?" The way he said her name, it were as though he were caressing it or petting it, as though it were a taste he could savor in his mouth. "If you died tomorrow, would you be filled with regret? Would others hurt because of your being gone forever?"

His hands, now hidden in his lip, were now a curiously white color as they gripped each other with fingers of steel as though choking or throttling the life out of each other.

[Dr. Temperance Brennan]

Brennan's nerves calmed when Mr. Matthews seemed to absorb her advice. Maybe she wasn't so bad at it after all. She'd been writing for a long time, but never had she been asked for advice. Proud of herself, Brennan gave a half-smile, which soon faded at his next words.

"Do you like your life, Dr. Temperance Brennan?"

The question sprang out at her like a deer in front of a car's headlights. Brennan had always thought she'd had an exceptional life, but then again, she was thirty-four years old and still living alone - no life in her home aside from herself and the world she created through her novels.

"If you died tomorrow, would you be filled with regret? Would others hurt because of your being gone forever?"

The honest answer to these two questions? I don't know. She had great friends, no doubt, but if she died...she didn't know how they'd react. Would they cry? Would they shake it off? "My life is fine. I have a great job, I make good money, and I have good friends." Brennan didn't know who she was trying to convince; herself or Mr. Matthews.

[Aristide "7Sins" Church]

"My life is fine. I have a great job, I make good money, and I have good friends."

Answers, answers, answers. They come in a multitude of various forms, if Dr. Brennan had chosen to jump up and storm out of the diner without saying a word it would have given Aristide an answer, granted a rather silent and incomplete one filled with assumption and opinions. Still, it would have been preferable to the one she had chosen to give, the shock of the question clear on her face.

She just needed some prodding, "But would you have regrets? Would other people lament your passing?"

If he were a dog, he'd be salivating at the mouth as though her answer were a juicy, thick steak he couldn't wait to sink his teeth into. This answer, this one answer would tell him all he needed to know, all he wanted to know; if only she would just answer! Anger roared at him to reach across and throttle her, but he stifled the nuisance of a thing, there would be a place for it later, perhaps, but not now.

[Dr. Temperance Brennan]

"But would you have regrets? Would other people lament your passing?"

These were questions Brennan hated. Questions that, if she were to answer directly, had no evidence to partner with. If she was to say that yes, she would be missed, she couldn't be certain it was the truth. She had no parents to miss her. Her friends had their own lives to worry about. Would they miss her?

"Everyone has some regrets. Nobody can tell when they're going to die...but being missed if I died...it's complicated. My friends, as great as they are, have their own relationships to worry about. Sure, maybe they'd miss me for a while, but they'd have to move on eventually." Brennan wasn't even positive she'd gotten her thoughts across correctly. Her mind was spinning with the three simple questions she was asked...why couldn't these questions be like science? Why couldn't the answers be facts?

[Aristide "7Sins" Church]

"...it's complicated..."

Hah, that's what unsure, unfaithful girlfriends spat out when being confronted by their soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend. Still, he could tell that this really was a difficult quesiton for this woman; not to suggest it was a necessarily easy one, Aristide believed most people would struggle with it.

Still, her answer, it did not evoke any stirring in the soon-to-be killer's chest and that was not a particularly promising sign, but their was still a chance, still some hope left for her. Blinking slowly, he took another sip of the bad coffee. Perhaps...one more question?

No, no. His directions had been clear, one question and only question was all that should be needed. This woman could live for now, she could be given the promise to see the morrow's sunrise. Rising without a word, he tossed down a clean, unwrinkled twenty dollar bill down onto the table for her meal. He turned abrubtly, his feet carrying him to the diner door in a few quick seconds; then something stopped him at the door, a gnawing at his stomach. That's when he thought to himself, hey, the instructions never said he could not keep a close eye on anyone in particular...did they? The gnawing vanished and a sinister smile creeped up onto Aristide's face, hidden from Temprance's view as he faced the door; yes, yes, he would simply keep an eye on her...a close, watchful, ever-vigilant eye.

A few steps out the door, he pulled the iPhone from his back pocket, pulling up the internet and pulling up the famous Dr. Temprance Brennan's bio online. Of course, complete with hair color, eye color, height, birthdate and, most importantly... address. The smile widening on his face, Aristide set off towards his destination with a joyful intent housed in his blackened heart.

[Dr. Temperance Brennan]

All Brennan could do was watch in slight puzzlement as Mr. Matthews rose from his seat, slipped the money onto the table, and left the restaurant without a word. Had she said something wrong and upset him?

She knew she shouldn't linger on his questions, but as the waitress carried her large salad, which, thankfully lived up to its name, she found herself continuing to try answering the three questions in her mind. Instead of scarfing the salad down unmercifully as she'd planned to do before Mr. Matthews arrived, she found herself poking at it as if the inability to answer his questions had ruined her appetite. Forcing the questions to the back of her mind, she compelled herself to eat, leaving the money that Mr. Matthews had tossed onto the table in its place before heading out the door into the cold December air.

Brennan made it home in a good fifteen minutes, with plans to crank the heat up and work on her novel for a while and attempt to relax. The anthropologist parked her car and carried herself through the frozen air and up into her apartment.