He sits on a throne of wheels. Unable to preside over the kingdom of life that lays before him.
All he wants is to roll smoothly from surface to surface, walking instead of stumbling on unsteady hope.
But, instead of sauntering like he's invisioned doing so many times, he goes into his drifting rolling stone element, slowly pushing forward. His hands slip on spokes wet from rain and he curses as he lurches forward.
Ca-chung ca-ching pop. Ca-chung ca-ching pop.
A hard hand comes down on his useless legs and he winces not from pain but from lack of feeling.
Once he felt. He had hopes and loves and pains and fears. They are all gone, washed away like the blood from his battered body as he was pulled from the wreck. Now all he has left are the fears. Even the pain can't comfort him now. He won't walk again, that's what he's been told.
Time and the accident have changed him. He is so bitter. So unable to grasp the good.
His life, now, is nothing because he won't let himself live. The marrow has been sucked from his bones and he is without spirit.
As Brodie enters the Half-Baked Bean, his torso movements shake the rain away. His dark eyes dart around with scorn and hate for the complete strangers, the customers and employees alike. He sees the way they all look at him like he's broken. Like he's a rag doll mauled beyond repair and missing a limb and he lets them think he doesn't notice. The same way he lets his little sister, Kelli, still look up to him even though the kid towers over his chair. But Nissa, his other little sister, is different. She doesn't come to him. She doesn't make him be what he once was, but she makes him want to be that person again.
And he can't understand how she pushes him so hard without saying a word.
Ca-chung ca-ching pop. Ca-chung ca-ching pop.
As he pushes himself to the towering counter, he sighs and looks up, feeling like the little kid he once was, the one who couldn't see over the bathroom sink or the kitchen table. It makes him feel rediculously stupid and embarassed. "Medium espresso," he drones to the cashier, and she watches him closely. He's seen this girl taking orders before, and, man, she was a real fucking bitch. Saving her manners for a cripple. God, it was so retarded. He hands over the cash, radiating a glare as he says nothing, and this gawking teenager looks as if she'd just been slapped. For a moment, he endulges in her offense, but the ruffling of feathers in the back of his shirt prompted to add a little guilt in his broiling pot of emotions. He recieves his change and coffee and mutters a slight "Thank you" before gliding backwards.
Ca-chung ca-ching pop. Ca-chung ca-ching pop.

Jayme walked into the coffee shop. He wasn't too wet, but it was raining hard enough his bald head was slicked and shiny with raindrops. A few people look at him as he enters, since his tall, full frame fills the doorway momentarily. He pauses once inside to remove a list from his shirt pocket, The girls all wanted different things back at the flower shop. They each always ordered the same thing, but he always needed it wrote down. His attention span was simply too short to hold their orders between the flower shop and here.

The moody chic was here as a cashier today. He steeled himself for her "Tude" she'd applied at the flower shop a couple times. Marla never considered her applications longer than Jayme did, her bad attitude seemed unlikely to sell flowers.

Jayme, list in hand begins to make his way to the counter to order from the list. Despite trying to side step as he sees the guy in the wheelchair start to move backwards, he gets backed into. He's large, and there are other people in the shop to avoid jostling as well.

He is dismayed to see this has resulted in a guy in a wheelschair, who now has his legs partly splatered with coffee. "I'm sorry." Jayme says to the guy "I should have been more careful." He hasn't even taken he time to look himself over yet, or he'd notice the black scuff and small rent from the wheelchair wheel on his khakis.

"Are you okay?" He asks. He realizes the coffee doesn't seem to be burning the guy. He can't feel his legs. Jayme concludes. He knows a thing or two about injuries even if he hasn't put his degree in physical therapy to use.

Had it not been for the previous nudge to do a little bit of niceness, Brodie probably would've exploded at this guy. But, then again, it was his own fault that he backed up into the stranger and probably ran over the guy's toes, quite a heinous crime indeed. He studies Jayme for a few moments, and the first thing that really catches his attention is the sincere concern on his face, not just sympathy or pity. This guy was sorry. Wow.
In spite of himself, Brodie replies, biting his lip (more accurately, lack thereof) a little, "'Cha, I'm going to live, I'll be alright," his voice is only slightly slurred, and soft. "It was more of my fault, though. With all the backing of up. I'll just--" his voice acquires a bitter tone with these next words. "Get back in line." The wheels rotate a little as he prepares to get in the back of the quickly sprawling line.

Jayme looks at the line, "Can I replace what ever I made you spill at least?" he asks. He gets out his billfold and takes out a card. He offers the card,"You might want to take this at least. In case I bent up your chair, or you need your clothes dry-cleaned, call me I'll take care of it." He says. The card reads Something Blooming Flower Shop, Jayme Macallaidair, Owner It also gives the address and phone number.

He really is sorry, but he comes off as scatter brained at the same time. Everything he says seems to come out all one sentence, he must speak before he forgets what he was going to say. For this reason normally he doesn't talk much.

He still hasn't taken the time to look himself over. He is trying to stay focused on any damage he may have caused for the moment. He'll worry about himself later, if too many things don't distract him.

Outside the rain falls harder, and more people crowd into the coffee shop.

He stares at the card for a moment, then grabs it a little too fast, studying its context and rubbing his callused fingers against the thick, soft paper. Brodie is a bit taken aback by this man's insatiable need to be kind to him. It's not like it's unfamilar, it's just never been in such a sincere form.
"S'okay," his very distinctive, soft voice replies. "The chair's been through some pretty nasty stuff, yo, but I don't think y'broke it or anything." His dark eyes dart upwards to meet his. "Seriously, it's okay." he added firmly.

Jayme nods as they get into the line, and glares at a preppy girl who tries to cut them. While he is normally a nice guy, he doesn't like girls who think they can cut lines based on cuteness. His big bald face does look a bit scary, or ridiculous. she goes to the end of the line. "He says quietly, "Well if it turns out you overlooked anything call me." He stands in line, and knows the girls at the shop while pick on him about how long it took him to get coffee.