magician's apprentice | we've come a long way from where we began (rp for
the_death_card)
The place Miranda picks for their lunch date is meant to be neutral ground, Dylan is sure. She has them come out to Chicago, and while she is doing a show here, sometime this weekend, if her website is to be believed, it's still not home, not for either of them. It's also not one of the dozen places around town that might have required a reservation and no escape, if either of them thinks this is going south. No, it's just a diner, a literal hole in the wall, in a strip mall between a chiropractor and -- something else, Dylan's not sure, as he misses the sign, etched into the wall as they head in, but either way, the effort all adds up to a massive relief. He's not sure this will go badly, that he needs to think in terms of advantages and disadvantages as if he was playing chess, considering he's changed in the last twenty years, twenty months, twenty weeks, but still. He lets out a breath of relief, as they step into the building and he takes a look around.
It's a little less reminiscent of a dive bar, inside, even if the floors are bare, the ceiling open, and Dylan takes a certain amount of comfort in that, too. He glances to Jack briefly, to gauge his impression of all of this, and then steps up to the hostess's station as he looks out over the tables, trying to spot Miranda in the dwindling late-lunch crowd. When he doesn't see her, he's not surprised (she never could be on time for anything), and so he gets them a table for three, by the window, and settles into a chair. He expects Jack will take up his side of the table, too, and that's fine with him.
Once he's settled, Dylan pauses a beat, before, "Have I mentioned the part where she'd be late for her own funeral?"
It's a little less reminiscent of a dive bar, inside, even if the floors are bare, the ceiling open, and Dylan takes a certain amount of comfort in that, too. He glances to Jack briefly, to gauge his impression of all of this, and then steps up to the hostess's station as he looks out over the tables, trying to spot Miranda in the dwindling late-lunch crowd. When he doesn't see her, he's not surprised (she never could be on time for anything), and so he gets them a table for three, by the window, and settles into a chair. He expects Jack will take up his side of the table, too, and that's fine with him.
Once he's settled, Dylan pauses a beat, before, "Have I mentioned the part where she'd be late for her own funeral?"

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Not yet, anyway. Give it about ten years.
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She's practically his aunt or whatever. It loses a little of the impact somehow - though again, he's still not saying no.
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"Next time, I'm actually ordering seventeen," Dylan threatens.
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"He's a teenage boy," Miranda argues, never mind the fact that it's on the heel of a laugh. Regardless, Dylan waves her and her 'argument' off.
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He's improved a lot when it comes to food since he's been living with Dylan. It's only recently that he's been able to bring himself to stop hiding food in his room, just in case. He's still working on slowing himself down when they do eat, on not eating as fast as he can in case someone decides they want what he's eating.
He also doesn't realize the full weight of the fact that he is willing to joke about food, now. He's just chalking that up to the fact that he's more comfortable with Dylan and their whole situation.
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"Alright, alright, fine," he growls, tone at odds with his expression. "I get it. Now eat your damn cheese sticks." He's going to eat his, sans the sauce.
Humming, pleased by all of this, Miranda reaches for a mozzarella stick of her own.
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He's trying to get them onto talking about something else but doesn't really know how to do it.
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"We were six, Miranda," Dylan protests after a second of sputtering around his mozzarella stick. His face immediately lights with color. "I didn't know, and neither did you."
"I'm not the one who started screaming about ninjas," Miranda answers, shrugging.
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Tell him more, c'mon.
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When Miranda starts to open her mouth, either to offer more of the goods or something else entirely, Dylan waves a hand at her, shaking his head. "Hey, no, huh uh. You start, I tell him about the time Dad took us to the zoo in Central Park."
"Oh, God," Miranda breathes, looking horrified, now, herself. "I give. You win."
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He's trying very hard not to start laughing and not doing a very good job of hiding how much he's about to.
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"Jake," she warns, though she looks, sounds more mortified than homicidal, at least for the moment.
"The frogs were screwing around, jumping from one lily pad to another," he continues, looking back to Jack.
"Jacob," Miranda insists, a little louder, now. Dylan shoots her another look, then shrugs as he returns his attentions to Jack. He might be able to guess where this story is going now, regardless. Even if he can't, Dylan offers him the mental image of a little Miranda, soaking wet, where she thought the lily pads might be able to hold her weight, too.
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She's not sure there isn't something now, but she's also pretty sure none of them involve Dylan, and she doesn't want to cause Jack pain, asking him about his life before.
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She already knows that one, but it was still definitely not his brightest moment, even if he didn't know Dylan was a Fed at the time and even if it turned out for the actual, literal best.
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That in mind, after a beat, she continues with, "And if you haven't used up all that luck, you might want to think about bottling it."
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/fade