Difference between revisions of "Log:Thrifty"

8 December, 2019

Casper and Mavis get out of the house to go shopping at a local thrift store to buy old-new clothes for Casper. They run into an old friend of his, Francis.

Random thriftstore in a temp room.

      Breakfast is had at the house, Mavis showing off her mediocre skills in the kitchen. The eggs, bacon and sausage are okay. It's hard to mess that up, but the coffee is what's really good. An on-again-off-again career as a barista might be to thank for that.
      She and Casper leave the house by late morning and arrive in town by early afternoon. There's this tiny thrift shop she'd been wanting to check out and the freckled, redheaded punk riding passenger was in need of some new clothes. For today, Casper has the clothing they'd found him in, but it has been washed and dried. It smells fresh and Mavis had given him one of her scarfs with the claim that she had too many anyway.
      They enter the shop, a little golden bell hung above the doorway announcing their arrival. Aisles of short shelves, racks laden with clothing on hangers, and big bins of assorted items are laid out in a haphazard way that seems only to be attempting organization. A woman behind the counter with an old cash register machine waves and cheerily greets them to which Mavis responds with a bright, earnest, "Afternoon!"
      Then, she turns back to Casper, still smiling pleasantly. "So, ya ready to go rummaging?" Mavis looks him over, making mental measurements. "Let's see.. My medium tops were a little baggy on you." They were loose on her. "Let's try some smols."

      The idea of clean clothing was appealing, but when Casper shed the pajama bottoms and top for the jeans and Stalls merch shirt? He is impressed at how they no longer smell like a damp cellar. He appears enamored, pulling at the collar of his black shirt and sniffing it. "...I didn't realize how bad I smelled. Wow... how did yous guys deal with me in the truck?" He asks, somewhat alarmed as he throws his jacket on. All the bleach spots are still there, but it no longer smells... distinct. He shrugs though and stuffs one black and white sock-clad foot into a boot, and then the next as they prepare to leave.
      Mavis brings him into the thrift store and there is already... some slight issue. The ring of the bell brings his eyes to widen and he seems to flinch at the bell clumsily clatters about with the opening of the door. He shudders, his skin paled, and he glances over at his shoulder, arms bent with hands ready to cup his ears. He glances toward the woman at the counter greeting them with suspicion but slowly lowers his hands and gives her a small nod. "Ah... aft-er-noon..." A quick cycle of breath makes him take several steps away from teh door.
      "...Do you... uh... have ear plugs, by chance?" He asks, glancing at the door with apprehension. "Smalls would be fine..."

      There are a handul of other people already about the shop's environs, and why not? Early afternoon is the best time to find deals, steals, and maybe a meal from around the corner. The soup shop has already seen Francis's patronage, however, and so he looks to cross another item off his short, three-piece list. Dressed in his weekend finery, he mills about, mulls over some things, and mostly checks out the wares.
       A good-looking couple are situated nearby, but he's in the Punk section by his lonesome, filtering through the demo discs and full albums as if he knows them. "Chowdah Heads. Crimpson Clamps. Jeez." The words are muttered quietly, barely-there, but halt altogether at the bell-ringing. Someone else coming in -always- triggers a look up top and now's no different. This time, though, it's something more than just a look. "The hell?" He definitely recognizes one of them. How could he not? Even at a distance, a mop of red atop a cute face is enough to keep Francis looking, especially when his keen, blue eyes are enough to alight on someone else with him.
       But he doesn't intrude. Not yet. Merely keeps his eyes focused and lays on a laconic sort of smirk until the ginger notices him or forces him to intercede.

      Mavis' smiles fades as Casper lowers his hands from his ears and she tilts her head at him, silently curious. Clearly, something had just happened, but she isn't sure WHAT and the pretty mortal turns her head to peer around the thrift shop where a handful of customers mill about the aisles and racks. There's one guy staring over at them through his sharp, blue eyes.
      "I don't have any," she tells him, shooting him a confused look then just asks Casper what she's wondering. "Why?" It's clear by her tone that Mavis is not only perplexed, but also disapproves of Casper wanting earplugs right NOW while she's in the middle of talking to him. She sniffs reproachfully then leans in, brushing against his arm and shoulder, and hisses quietly to Casper, "Is that guy looking at you? Or me? I don't know him." He seemed... shady, somehow, in a refined manner.

      "Bells..." Casper clarifies in a quiet rasp, still shivering as he adjusts his scarf and musses up his hair as he regains composure. He is silent for a few beats, and his lips make small movements as he appears to be inaudibly whispering something. The door has a bell. The bell rings for customers. The door has a bell. The bell tells the slav-WORKERs that someone has arrived. The bell came from outside. The bell is not for him. He realizes that he had lost focus and turns to Mavis, quickly adding on.
      His tone is low, whispering, "I can't really... deal with, like bells? I mean, that one... isn't going to make me lose it, but it still kind of..." He trails off and shivers again. He had not noticed being watched, but when Mavis mentions it? That brings a rush of adrenaline. Bad timing! His eyes glower about until he sees a familar, angular face and blushes pink.
      "...Frenchie?" He whispers and then clears his throat in correction. "Fuck! ...I mean, I... think that's French? I thought he lived in Jersey though..."

       The two are talking conspiratorial-style and that just...won't do. Not for Francis. Always with a need to be at the center of conversation or at least within its sphere, the cocksure, self-assured young gent chooses the time right about when Casper is blushing in remembrance to approach. His swagger is measured, steps delicate and placed like on a runway, but with none of the effort. Graceful, yet with a hint of menace behind it all, the fancy man approaches with but a single album tucked beneath his armpit.
       Before he's even within arm's length, he calls out, words like a harpoon meant to fix Casper into place before the proverbial whale can turn the boat over and make for safer waters. "Caspy! Well, hell. Imagine seeing you here." Each syllable has his steps bringing him closer until, proximal, his cologne precedes his paces and announces his sweetness to the world. That dark chocolate brow of his launches up like an arch and his eyes dance from 'Caspy' to his female companion.
       "Gosh, and with a stunning friend to boot? Moving up in the world, Caspy?" He teases with but a brief glance to the other man before he hones in on Mavis with a look and a gentle palm extension. "Lovely to meet you. Any friend of Caspy's..."

      Bells? Mavis almost blurts that word back at Casper, but she's weighing the implications of it very seriously. Her honey-brown eyes flick over his head to where the golden bell hangs above the door and she shoots it a disliking stare while Casper whispers inaudibly besides her. When he stops, seems to take reign of himself, Mavis has slipped her gloved-hand into his. The glove leaves her fingers bare and those digits give his a squeeze. Her smile for him is patient and she leans in, presenting the shell of her ear, to catch the rushed murmurs of Casper's explanation.
      "Ah," she goes, comprehension dawning on her features. "Got it."
      That guy was coming over and, more surprisingly, Casper knew him. Still, Mavis shoots a doubtful look between the pair. "You know this guy?" It's difficult to tell if she's talking to one, the other, or both. She shoots "Frenchie" a withering glare and subtly shifts her hand linked with Casper's more into plain view. Mine, ya see?
      "Mavis," she finishes flatly when it seems that Francis is fishing for a name to attach to her pretty face. She didn't normally mind being admired, but something about this guy... made her feel like she needed a shower after taking his hand to give it a too-brief shake. "So-" A glance a Casper, back to Francis. She didn't much like the way he'd spoken to the redhead about how he was moving up in the world either. This fellow was obviously born and bred of money. "-You two know each other?"

      Casper whispers something to Mavis, squeezing his hand tight in Mavis's - as much for support as for affection. Francis might notice Casper is probably not in the best spirits - although why might also be beyond him. Still, Casper lets out a small sigh as Francis seems to insist on not-at-all shortening Casper's name. "...Hey, French..." He lifts his free hand, wiggling fingers. He shrugs his shoulders, and looks up to Mavis.
      "Um, this is French." He rises onto his toes to whisper something into Mavis's ear, cupping his lips with the hand not wrapped into Mavis's, then back down and attention returns to Francis. "Um... I played a show or two at his house. "He's alright. I don't know why Caspy is a thing. He's harmless." He shrugs.
      He then addresses Francis. "I thought you lived in Jersey? I mean, I knew you were moving at the end of the year but..."

       Now there's a tragedy. The hand-holding is immediately noticed with a swift glance downwards, but Francis at first makes no bones about it. No, he's far more wounded--falsely, it should be noted--by the cold reception he gets. His hand is soft, even silky to the touch, but no matter how warm it is, it can't unwind the freezing retorts that Mavis shoots his way. With all the acting talent of a high-school drama hack, Francis' features twist to a pouty hang-dog sort of look that shows he's truly, truly hurt.
       That pouty, soft-lipped expression shoots over to Casper in surprise as--kaloo-kalay!--some defense is leveled. "It's nice to see Caspy's got another friend who'll stand up for him. But you have nothing to worry about with me, Mavis." A pause, then he interjects his own thought. "I didn't mean to interrupt the date, just..." A hand rises, gestures at the redhead, and his prettyboy smile starts to overtake his face again. Battling back the woundedness, it rises and charms as it surely has dozens of people before the pair.
       "Haven't seen you in a -while-, Caspy. Yeah. Finished school! About time, ya know? All done, so..." He gestures around him, this time more laconically, and at 'everything'. "Moved back home. Family biz. I work at the hotel." Another pause and -maybe- he means this next set of words: "It's nice to see ya. You been okay?"

      Mavis winds her hand out of Casper's and pushes both into the pocket of her hoodie. "Cool," she comments, trying to force cheer into her voice and managing to smile in French's direction. She has a nice smile-- Mavis does-- and pretty white, teeth although there's a visible sliver of a gap between her two incisors. The expression doesn't touch her eyes, though, which remain calculating and shrewd throughout Francis' melodramatic sulking. She liked him even less because of it.
      "Funny, people with no agendas don't usually say that as a precursor, but it's nice to meet you. French." She tells him this in a too-polite voice and doesn't bother to correct him for calling this outing with Casper a date. It reeked of bait on a hook that she didn't want to give Francis the pleasure of her sinking into.
      "I'm glad Cas," she emphasizes, "has more friends here." Turning to Casper, cutting Francis into the corner of her peripheral vision as a form of passive (aggressive) rejection, she says to him, "I'm going to go browse. I'll be over there if you need me."

      Casper shoves his hands into his pockets once Mavis detaches from him and opts to go browse. His eyes glance at Francis's album and then back up to him. Family biz, work at a hotel - THE hotel. Mavis leaves him there with Francis, and there is a small awkward pause. Casper's eyes flit upward, and then around his surroundings before he shrugs. "I'm..." He glances toward Mavis, and a small genuine smile comes over his features. Francis might recall an angrier and somewhat bleak punk, that seems to have softened over the course of a year. "...better. I think Vermont's better for me than Jersey," he says with a small shrug. He then gives Francis a small, playful shove.
      "Yeah. I'm here to get some clothes and settled in. I'm trying to get my life together. Mavis is helping me with that - after a ride... ditched me and I had to hoof it for a bit." He smiles up to Francis. "So, what was that earlier? LIke, you came on like... I don't know. Disney evil."

       Whether she knows it or not, Francis's estimation of Mavis shoots up rather abruptly. She doesn't buy the act, sees right through him, gives him the cold shoulder--almost literally--instead of stooping to soothing the projected, injured ego. Handsomely-trimmed brows shoot aloft on Francis's face to show surprise, but they also melt any hints of his being offended. Indeed, she forthrightly announces what she's up to and he watches her go like he's impressed.
       So when he looks back to his friend? The expression hangs around, carrying the compliment over to Casper in the motion. Noticed, the album is something from a local band--Maple Sighrup--that's likely all mellow and lazy judging from the forest on the cover. Francis is busy noticing the smile instead of any accoutrements. "You look better." He means it. Even grins as the shove comes, which he returns with a prompt double-finger to the chest of Casper.
       "Shoulda called me. Well...guess ya didn't know I'd answer. I'm here now, so. If you need something?" The offer's made, but Francis has made similar offers in the past--he's good for most of them, but sometimes not. The accusation draws a shrug. "She's cute. I'm still...getting used to not being in school. Different dynamic, you know?" His voice is soft as he leans in, this time not to nudge again, but to fold a single arm around Casper's neck so he can reel him into a too-brief hug-and-whisper. After that split-second hug, he releases, eases back again and looks over his shoulder. "You two serious?"

Casper says, "With what phone?""

      He said he worked at the hotel, right? Surely, Francis didn't mean the Red Clover Hotel where her girlfriend, Amity, worked at the front desk. Mavis had never seen him there then again he was newly back in town, wasn't he? Mavis has wandered off and is snatching at the hangers on the racks with more aggression than necessary.
      She keeps shooting glances in Casper's direction then pulls out her phone to text Amity. Ask her if she'd met some hotshot named French or Frenchie or whatever at the hotel. Mavis glimpses over at the pair again when there's some playful shoving, but she seems less tense after returning her phone to her pocket to continue browsing the racks. Jeans are layered over her arm as she drifts along the... child's section to find pants that fit the scrawny, freckled redhead.
      Mavis' dark head lifts to peer over at Francis and Casper again, spying the hug and meeting Francis' eyes for a brief, brow lowering stare back at him when he tosses a look over his shoulder at her. Yes, I see you. Her face betrays her dislike, nose scrunching up a little, and lips pursing. The sounds of the hangers sliding and clacking against each other can be heard from where she rifles through the bargains.

      Casper cocks his head, looking somewhat annoyed. "I mean, I don't exactly keep a phone..." He shrugs and pulls on the jacket. A customer exits the shop and his head whirls around, stepping toward Francis, and near audibly gasps. The issue of a bell had likely never came up when the two knew each other. It wasn't the worst noise in the world. It was far too close to it, though. He straightens up, adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his hair and nods. "Thanks... I am feeling better."
      He leans against Francis when the older, taller boy hugs him and there is a question that brings his face to turn pink. Snap response and another shove. "...What the - I - what. Who asks that?"
      Casper shakes his head. "Jesus, Frenchie." He takes a deep breath, his face red from something Francis whispered to him. He whispers something back, and shrugs. It was a weak response but he was not feeling on his toes. "What about you? They suck, by the way," he nods to the album. "Like... Imagine like... Blood Brothers meets Grateful Dead but bad."

       If Amity's heard of Francis, it's because she heard one of the boss's relatives had been put in charge of a shift at the hotel. Something of a sinecure, judging by the rumors, but he does ostensibly show up to some of his job. Where that puts him on the insufferable rich-boy spectrum is up to the beholder.
       Francis starts to flush a little about his perfect cheekbones. Oh, right. "Ah, shit." At least he has the ability to appear to be embarrassed by his assumptions that others can afford what he considers basic necessities. Has he ever had to worry about money? Casper reassures his worries, though he leans in for another quick-hug all the same. "Sorry. Seriously. You...want me to getcha one?" He offers to enable, and a thoughtful look is given back at the now rack-strewing Mavis to indicate just -why- he might be making the offer. He gets shoved off mid-hug, however, and this time he's laughing, moods swaying with the beats of conversation like he's just riding a wave. "I do! I wanted to know, s'all. She seems cool." Is cool. He's made his mind up about her already. Casper knows him well enough that when Francis leaves doubt about his compliments, he probably means them.
       That damn nickname pours out a beat later and his ears heat up. A quick glance around ensures no one--he thinks--heard it. No rebuke comes, however. Not now--or here. "Mh. Thanks. I'll give it a listen anyway and sell it back. I kinda just...rotate through these days. I missed way too many locals when I went off to school. Got four years to claw through, ya know?" But he shrugs and, having attempted to dodge the real question, he gives up. "I'm good. Adjusting--I'll manage. You should come by the hotel some time."

      Mavis walks over to the where the shirts are racked, turning her head to peer in the direction of the two guys talking. She looks away again then puts her back to them while perusing the shelves, holding up a garment now and then to look at it and either put it back or lay it over her forearm.
      

      "Do you... work at the Red Clover?" Casper asks with a small blink. It seemed like a question worth asking, and in some way it might help Casper's circle stay manageably small. He was not anticipating a Jersey contact in Vermont - least of all a mortal from less responsible days! Still, maybe this was a good sign? Francis could be sleazy but he was good people - he always had a place for the redhead to crash, and was pretty supportive. Vermont was apparently eager to shoewr him with good things - but then, Francis offers buying him a cell phone.
      "Oh... about the phone..." He smiles and pulls out a small cheap smart phone in a bright pink case. "Mavis got me this rad one. Like I said, she's been super helpful, I could... get your number?" He offers, glancing down at the phone. He stares at it after pushing the button and taps his forehead as he remembers he needs to put in a passcode, and then push the phone button, and then push the contact button - the future had so many processes!

       "Hey, that's the one! You're already ahead of me here." Francis jokes, smile easy in coming as even an inkling of someone knowing where he works makes him feel better about moving back. Companionably, he angles in such a way that Mavis can easily see his front at an angle pointed towards Casper's, enough that his eyes are able to peer down at the phone that's produced. At first, Francis second-naturedly goes to take the phone to punch his number in, but seeing the steady pauses Casper gives in the, to him, rote process of unlocking a phone...He pauses. And a lightbulb flickers in that pretty head of his.
       "She's good for you then. Very good. Now we just have to get you all sorts of people to be worth calling. I'll be number two?" His voice is playful about that, as if he's already fine with Mavis slotted a higher level, but dammit! He's after! Manicured fingers delve into his own pocket for a--far fancier--phone of his. A quickened beep-bop-boop and his contacts are up, 'Casper' punched into a list, and number just waiting to be entered. He gives his own number, but... "What's yours? I'll punch ya in, give you a ring real soon?"

      Mavis just so happens to peer in their direction and she just so happens to catch the cultural brandishing of cellular devices. She's happy Casper doesn't have to admit to not owning one, but the fact that he's obviously taking French's phone number earns just darkens her mood further. She was going to have to do something about this soon and the dusky-skinned mortal departs from the clothing racks to make her way over to the boys.
      "Heyas," she breezes, managing to sound personable and exclusionary at the same exact time. "I picked some things out for you if you wanted to go try them on, Cas." She includes a glance at Francis that turns frosty before it falls on him and Mavis' lips quirk up at the corners for an impersonal smile. "Nice phone," she tells him, sounding unimpressed.

      Casper gives a small nod and exchanges texts with Francis. "Yeah, well, she's super cool. I mean, you did kind of come off - you know. All show and no go." He rolls his shoulderes and slips his phone away when the deed is done. "But sure, I could swing by while you're at work, that'd be rad." He shoots Francis a warm smile as Mavis makes her way over. He turns to her and beams.
      "Hi, Mav; um, I guess I should be looking for clothing, huh? Yeah... I'll go do that right now?" He offers, rocking back and forth on his feet. He definitely preferred Cas to Caspy. Utterly. She seems to offer a suggestion, and he miiiight just take it as a command, waiting for her to point out the stuff and enter a dressing room. Why not let his two support structures talk things out while he looks things over!

       "Yeah, I know. Couldn't help myself I guess? You'd be surprise how often that works..." Francis admits with a subtle shrug amidst the tip-taps into the phone. Most thoughts of Mavis are forgotten as he gets confirmation his friend will come visit him at some point. "Pretty soon, right? Gotta tell ya, I've been there a week and it gets dull." He relates this as he gives a few more taps into the phone, scheduling...something by the looks of the screen presenting a calendar.
       As he handles the device, Tropical Storm Mavis breezes back over and Francis glances up almost immediately. He's not so lost in his cultural exchange with his old pal that he forgets the fireplug what brought him here. Flashy, blue eyes take her in once more and he's smiling despite the expression she shoots him. Maybe a little warm rain will melt the ice? Caspy jets off and leaves them be, to which, well. Francis starts off with a quiet tone, eyes flashing innocently when they look to the woman's. "Hey, I think I started out on the wrong foot earlier. I promise I'm just a good friend of Caspy's. Cas's." He corrects, even smiles boyishly as he admits the mistake without actually doing so. Maybe another tack will do the trick? "You got him a phone, and that's really cool. He needs more of that."

      Mavis empties her arms of the clothing she'd selected from the shelves, all about Casper's size. Some of the legs of the pants might be too long, but Mavis tells him, "Amity can shorten hems, by the way," as she steers Casper by the shoulders to the dressing room to scoot him off. When he's gone, the pleasantness drains from her features and she turns to Francis with a skeptically arched, black brow.
      She doesn't say anything and turns back to watching the dressing room stalls, waiting for the richboy to put a foot forward at his own peril. Surprisingly, Francis doesn't stick that foot in his mouth. It seems he has some humility after all and Mavis tilts her head back at him to give him a renewed study.
      "Don't worry about it," she tells him, less frostily and shoots him a brief smile that's not as superficial as the ones before it. "You just reminded me of-- hm." How did she say this without hurting or, worse yet, fluffing his ego? "Some wise-assed, city-slick. Or like the mafia." Mavis sniffs and rubs her nose, shrugging with one shoulder as Frenchie praises her altruism. "Yeah, well. I figured it'd help him find a job, kinda hard when employers can't give you a call back." Maybe she should have made sure the default ringtone didn't sound too much like... bells. Hopefully, it did not. "By the way, I think my girlfriend works where you're at-- the Red Clover, if that's the same hotel. Amity, cute, bookish blonde at the front desk."

       Shift rotation means Francis has all the freedom he could want to make a better impression with Mavis. He tries his best not to blow it this time, though it's hard not to revert to his college richboy ways with Casper gone. So he leads with a faint compliment, starts to bridge the gap, sees another opportunity. Goes for it with a winsome smile that shows how neat and perfect his teeth are. "I mean, you aren't that far off." He jokes, voice crisp and clean, almost soothing as he keeps his voice down.
       "Wise-assed and city-slick's me, pretty much, but I'm trying to rein it in. It played better when I wasn't, ya know, -in- the city." More self-deprecation there, but only just. "My tongue runs away with me sometimes." A nod, and then he listens instead. Each motion of his head either shifts to one side to better listen, or inclines like he's paying attention to her, hanging on Mavis's words while trying not to seem sycophantic. His soft expression and charming, pretty-boy blues hopefully help his case. It can't hurt that he brightens at another mention of the Clover.
       "Yeah!" Ah. "I mean, er, yeah." The first answer is boisterous, boyish, betrays his age. He pulls back the youthful exuberance a moment and flashes a faint smile instead. "I mean, yeah, that's the one. The Clover. I haven't seen her around, but I'll keep my eyes peeled. Tell her Mavis sent me?" The delivery on that last comes with a tinge of mirth, but Mavis sets him wondering. "...girlfriend, though? You and Cas aren't...?"

      "At least you can own up to it," Mavis comments with a dusky laugh. She would have thought less of Francis had he denied it or tried to shift the blame, but he accepted her criticism with handsome grace. Her attitude shifts subtly, body language less closed off and guarded. She angles more toward him, still keeping the dressing rooms in her view, but Francis held a thread of her attention now that she didn't completely resent.
      "I dunno, you might could, but that would be a bit of a fib," she teases him, talking about telling Amity she had sent him. Something of a word-lawyer, this one, and this quality no-doubt paid off when dealings with the Lost, although Mavis had unconsciously learned it from her mother. "Don'tcha think? And yeah," she confirms, nodding deeply at Francis with her eyes on his prettyboy blues. They seemed less predatory now that he'd been knocked down a peg or two. "You heard me: girlfriend. Cas and I," she trails off, turning to peer directly at the dressing rooms. Casper's feet could be seed under the gap between the floor and the door. She smiles a little before looking back at Francis with a helpless shake of her head. "We're just friends. He's sweet, Amity and I are helping him get back up on his feet."

       A playful shrug ripples from Francis's shoulders as he accepts Mavis's psuedo-compliments. "I like to think I know what I'm capable of. If I can't admit when I'm a dick now and then..." Another shrug and he smiles, damn him. He's done this a million times before--perfect smile, pretty lips, soft eyes--and it's never failed him. With Mavis actually looking dead-on at him instead of fussing over her ward, Francis turns up the boyishness and inveigles himself with her all he can.
       "Only a bit, though?" Two can play at words. "I'll just say I...met ya, then. Let her figure it out. We gotta work together at some point anyhow. No sense in starting off on a weird lie, right?" Rationale complete, Francis fiddles in his pocket again for a split-second to produce that fancy, expensive phone of his. Whatever thought he had meant with it is soon lost as Mavis clarifies matters. To his credit, Francis doesn't sputter so much as seem a little perplexed. "Girlfriend. And Cas and you...ah. Oh! Gotcha. I think." He definitely thinks he does, is probably wrong. Cute confusion roams his face even so, making his lips curl up at one corner like he's chewing on the inside of a cheek. "Amity too? Well. Now I have to meet her. Any friend of Cas's and all." Another pause and he shakes his head as if clearing some fog.
       "Mind if I get your number? Maybe meet up with you and Amity at the hotel sometime? I'll buy ya a drink."

      Mavis smiles and shrugs agreeably, not actually agreeing with him, but her admonishments are well aimed. "Sure, that'll get you on the right foot," she notes to him airily, closing her eyes for a moment to undoubtedly roll them behind her eyelids. She opens them again and her smile hitches higher at the corners, but that wilts at his request for her phone number. Despite trying to control this from happening, one of Mavis' dark brows shoots in an amused tick. She shakes her head, though, and tells him, "I'm sure I'll see you around, by the sounds of it." Hard to say if she looks forward to these meetings or not. "Nah, we don't drink much. Thanks, anyways?" Where the heck was Cas? He could hurry along anytime now.

       Through it all--especially the hint of sarcasm that he detects--Francis keeps that companionable expression on his face. It's the easiest way to keep pushing, pursuing, and so that handsome look of his keeps right on. "Only one way to find out." He offers in the most determined way he can. Perhaps because of that, he doesn't seem put out when his question is mostly dodged. No first-meet number has happened before, albeit rarely, but...he pockets the phone a beat after. Fate accepted.
       "I hope so." He means that, as if his sincerity might just prove infectious. His eyes intensify in color at the thought. "You seem like you've got a lot of interesting things to say. Maybe I can listen over a smoke, then?" Another olive branch, this one greener, and his eyes cast off to the fitting room a beat later. "How'd you guys meet?"

      Casper has been spending a bit too much time looking at his butt in one the jeans that Mavis had picked out for him. Cling is such an interesting word; these jeans highlighted his backside. Nevermind how long it took for him to get them on - wiggle, hop, pull, tug, brace, leverage, suck in, pray. ...Wait. Wiggle, hop, pull, tug, drop, sit, pull, pull, wiggle, lift, grunt, freedom. He glances at the tag on the pants. ...No, they were the right size. Wait. ...Are these girls' jeans? Well, they were the only sort that fit like that. The other outfits fit fine. Some of the shirts were also kind of cool: a few bands he definitely did not know but were probably popular; at least one somewhat flowery button-down; a tye-dye shirt, that's a throwback. Oh! Does Mavis know about his near half-century skip? Whatever, he probably spent far too much time. Mavis might even be annoyed with him. Or Francis. Or both. He shoots a quick text to Mavis, puts his attire on, and gathers up the clothes. He debates the really tight jeans he struggled to get on; would they stretch. Ugh, would they shrink? ...They did look really good on him when he finally got it on.
      The dressing room door opens, and Casper is back in his punk fatigues. He approaches the duo with a smile. "Hey, I'm finished up and ready to go if you are, Mav." He bounces in place, smiling to Francis. "I, uh, I'll drop by when you're at work or something sometime."

      Mavis pulls out her phone, buzzing in her hoodie pocket, and looks down at it while Francis dazzles at her. Her front teeth pin her bottom lip as she shoots a quick text back off, then tilts her head to peer up at Francis in a semi-engaged fashion. He was pretty to look at, sure, but she hadn't completely forgiven him yet. That he'd accepted her declination of swapping digits so graciously did tally in his favor, however.
      At least, enough for her to say, "I'll catch you for a smoke sometimes, maybe." She quietly shares with him, leaning just a touch to pass this secret between them. "Been trying to quit so I really shouldn't." And she really ought to before Amity caught her.
      Casper returns and Mavis positively beams at him so that her white, crescent smile splits face. The rosy, healthy pinks of her gums edge her teeth and her lips thin as they stretch wide to grin at the freckled punk. "Yeah, looks like you got some stuff. Nice job," she tells him, pleased he'd found some clothes out of the heap she'd given him. She glances at Francis, deciding how best to answer him. "Amity and I picked him up the other night. He was cute and stranded, we decided to help." That was all. "I was thinking about getting a puppy anyway," she adds as if she had just brought Casper back from the grooomers. "We'll probably see each other soon," she turns to tell Francis in the voice of someone about to disengage. "I'll bring Cas up to the hotel one of these days. Sometimes Amity and I have lunch." Aw. Isn't that nice?

       Francis shows no signs of being annoyed by being conversationally discarded in favor of a text. He cools his heels instead, watches the door for Casper's imminent return. Mavis makes the mistake/awesome decision of giving him hope. Up come those lovely brows of his, smile go the corners of his lips. Life shines in Francis's eyes and he nods just once, slowly, like he's totally not suppressing excitement. "Probably best to quit. Shit's bad for ya." He jokes in low tones, yet is already scheming for their future.
       Then the boytoy of the over--just friends with Mavis, he recalls--returns and he loses sight of the smokey future in favor of the punky present. Unable to resist, Francis's eyes go wandering and inspecting over the new garb in Cas's arms as if imagining the other guy in them--especially the pants. "Looks good, Cas." Cas, he says. Mavis worked on him. Francis holds the amiable smile, exuberance on the leash. "Yeah? Make it real soon, maybe?" He tries, shoots a wink Cas's way a beat later. "Have a good date you two. Call me?" With that, he leaves the pair be--and resumes his album-browsing for more Vermont locals.