Tam is happy. Happy, happy, happy. So happy he doesn’t want to stab anything. Well, barely anything, anyway. Not really anything. I mean, if someone was starting trouble on purpose he might get a bit stabby, but just a little bit. And if someone knocked his elbow totally accidentally and apologised profusely afterwards – well, he’d just laugh it off, even though he’d have coffee all down his front. He’s been busking a little to raise the money for two coffees. One is for him – obviously – while the other is for the one who’s been making him so joyful about the place. Kristopher Hekas. Flapper, doll, elevator-doer-it-inner. The one making Thomas William Joyce whistle as he orders his coffee.

He’s looking a little bit scenester today, what with the baby blue slogan top that sits about an inch above his waistline. It’s far too small for him really. He used to wear it in juniors for gym but suddenly wearing tight faded shirts with ‘Glasgow Junior Volleyball Championships’ and the like is fashionable again, and who is Tam to argue? So long as he doesn’t see anyone he knows he’ll be fine. The fact he’s skinny as a whippet and holding his jeans up with a tie just adds to the scenester look. Again, he doesn’t care. Life is too good to care about little silly things like clothes when there are beautiful girls who’ll let you take theirs off.

Outside the shop he licks the foam off the spoon he’s been stirring with while balancing the cups one on top of each other. Feeling adventurous, he’d ordered some mocha locha frappathing, which Kittio will probably hate but which has Tam impressed at the price and the list of ingredients. He drops the spoon in the bin, takes the coffee one in each hand again, and stops. And stares. And stares some more. There in the mirrored window he’s facing is... Huh. Well, there’s something you don’t see every day. And Tam’s still frozen solid for a while before he narrows his eyes, turns around and marches.

"Oi!"

It had been a perfectly nice day, too. Pity, really.

Tatter had pretty much figured that weirdo people he'd known in an especially trippy phase (or in Glasgow, same difference) would stay where they belonged. In Scotland. So it's really a bit of a suprise for him that he's just run into Thomas whatisname. The last name, if Tatter ever knew it, currently eludes him.

He was just coming back from the park, where he'd been entertaining a crowd of plump middle aged women - the young mother's yoga society - by producing baby toys and glitter from thin air. The pockets of his ripped jeans are heavy with change. The holes in the denim are semi-held together with coloured safety pins, and the jeans themselves are prevented from slipping off Tatter's skinny hips with a black silk scarf-come-belt.

He's wearing two tee-shirts, the pink one slashed up to show off the blue underneath, and several dozen gold bangles and exactly thirteen silver earrings. His nails are chipped and glittery and kinda lime green. They probably should be cut. The only things that can be said to his credit are that his hair (in looped braids, hung with more safety pins) is clean, and he doesn't look particularly stoned.

"What the fuck, man," he mutters. He gives himself points for remembering that he's English. From Sheffield, right?

Tam is no longer happy.

"Right back at you, dickface," he snaps. A lot of stuff is suddenly starting to make a lot more sense. Such as: why would Jessica, a sensible and loyal girl, suddenly decide to leave for London and then for Canada? Answer: London to get a visa. Canada because she’s loyal to a fault and that’s where her stoner English boyfriend is off to next.

He would be very, very pissed if he knew Tatter’s forgotten their family name.

Everything that was originally endearing about Tatter – his prettyboy looks, the funny way he does his hair, the freckles, the stoner smile – is, now that Tam is mad at him, just serving to piss him off even more. What kind of man wears nail varnish for goodness’ sake? Tam can feel the anger building up until it reaches the end of his fingers, where the coffee he’s holding starts to boil with a distinct sound. The cardboard sleeves that are meant to insulate the one holding the coffee from its heat have started to smoke. Whoops. So much for nice gestures. He wants to explode, but seeing as how there’s no way for him to do that on a crowded street without causing panic, settles for: "I can’t believe you’d do that to me, yer fuckin’ cunt!"

Tatter is - unfortunately for the diplomatics of the situation - at a loss.

He wrinkles his nose in thought, scrunching up the offending freckles. He's pretty sure he doesn't owe Thomas - Tam - any money. Unless he pulled that leprechuan trick with the cash. But he didn't, because he wasn't sure how long he was gonna hang around and that was definately a leaving trick.

Oh, and speaking of pulling things... Tam's sister. Right. Bugger. Bugger. No, really. Bugger.

"Do what to you," Tatter asks, feigning more innocence then he's ever actuallly had. "Break your sweet little heart, did I? And dude, mind the smoke." Someone might notice. Actually, a distraction would be good. Then Tatter could just run the hell away. Yeah, that'd be nice.

As things are, he remedies the smoke issue by fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He slides two out, offering one to Tam and then casually lighting the other off Tam's cup.

Tam throws the coffee cup to the ground after Tatter’s finished lighting his cigarette off it. The flames were a little overenthusiastic. He’s been trying to keep a check on that particular aspect of his temper recently, as it tends to lead to difficult-to-explain situations, like how one of his mates managed to get second degree burns all over his forearm. The hot coffee has the fortunate side effect of cancelling out the even hotter burning cup. Not only that, but when it splashes, it does so in the direction of Tatter rather than Tam. Perfect. It has our Scottish boy feeling smug enough to calm down the other hand, putting out the smouldering sleeve before it turns to ash.

He’s not one to turn down a cigarette – ever – and he takes this one from the packet with his mouth. "Mm, thanks," he mumbles, lights it with a finger, and gets back to the matter in hand. "You!" Whoops. The finger he’s using to point at Tatter still has a flame licking at the end. He shakes it a couple of times, same way you’d do with a match, before continuing. "Don’t fuck around with me, you little bastard," he hisses angrily. "This isn’t about me, or you, or me an’ you, or whatever! This is about Jessie. Where is she?"

Tatter has to jump back a little to avoid Tam's mocha-whatever. He manages to make this look suave, too, and then he has a long drag on his cigarette. Exhaling smoke in lazy rings (and then in lazy fish, which follow the bubbles upwards) he smirks at Tam. "Your sister," he asks, still playing innocent. One eyebrow goes up. It's half purple and looks just a little bit odd. "Jessica. How the hell should I know where she is? She's your bloody sister."

He's not even lying this time. Honestly, he has know idea where the kid is. Not a clue. Last time he saw her she was in Glasgow. It was three in the morning and he was a bit out of it, but he was sure that was Jessica.

"Haven't seen her in ages," he informs the smouldering brother, with a light shrug of his shoulders. "Not since... I dunno when. Last time I was in Glasgow. I don't make a habit of going to Glasgow, y'know. Full of bloody Scots."

The last remark is gratutious. He's got nothing against Scots, or Scotland, or Glasgow. Nice place. Charming city, excellent chips. A couple to many knives and over-zealous football fans, but still. Lovely.

"Really." It’s a statement, not a question. This is one of those times when those spells from Jessie’s book that are meant to make people tell the truth would be useful.

He’s not quite as good as Tatter at being suave, probably because he finds it impossible to stop himself visibly shaking with anger. He takes a sip of his coffee and it scalds the inside of his mouth. He swallows it with difficulty when he really wants to be spitting it out. Damndamndamndamn that’s hot, but it’s worth it to try and outstare the bastard.

"So the fact she’s in Bayfield," he says, slowly but conversationally, "she’s in the same city as yeh. You’ve go’ absolutely nothing to do with that, huh? Interesting, seeing as how I followed her all t’way frae Glasgae ta London to Bayfield aftar she ran away frum home yeh little cunt." Followed by another sip of the coffee.

It burns him again. And it’s a good thing because it gives him a focus for all the anger snowballing behind his shaking tiny frame.

This doesn't sound good, doesn't look good, doesn't even feel good.

Thank god for cigarettes to keep a guy sane. Although Tam's doesn't seem to be having a particularly calming effect. Possibly he'll spontaneously combust - although that seems like too much to hope for.

"Really," Tatter says. He's watching ash form on the tip of the fag like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. Everything else is decidedly out of focus. "I didn' even know she was here."

More truth. Tatter's being ever so truthful, for once in his life. Mentally, he's chastising himself. Why the hell did he tell Jessie Bayfield? Why couldn't he have said Toronto, or Montreal? Better yet, Victoria or L.A. What good's a life of borderline pathological lying if your tongue trips up and fails you at the worst possible moment?

"Have you, uhm, seen her," he risks asking.

"No," Tam replies, really regretting that last sip of coffee. Everything he’s saying seems to be coming out in italics now, his words dropping on Tatter’s shoulders like lead balloons.

Tam takes a huge drag of the cigarette he’s bummed from his ex-friend. Combined with his naturally hot temper it burns away at least half the tobacco. Cinematic fag burning: no longer just for X-Men! Though in X-Men, of course, it’s only the baddies who smoke. Whereas in this situation baddies and goodies are a little more subjective.

He takes a long hard look at Tatters. Maybe... well, maybe he really is telling the truth. It’s not completely outside the realms of possibility, is it? Tam can almost feel Kittio looking coolly over his shoulder. She would analyse before rushing in and beating people to a bloody pulp. She might do it anyway, but she’d make sure first that it was really what she wanted to do.

"Alright," he says finally. "So if y’didn’t know she were here, what are you doin’ here? Ah mean... if yer telling the truth." If Tatters is the sort to take advantage of doubt, now is precisely the time to do it.

"I," Tatters informs Tam cooly (cooling is exactly what he needs, after all) "live here. I was here before your bloody sister turned up and as far as I know, my being here and her being here are completely unconnected."

Well, now he's rapidly leaving the safe, warm shallows of truth and heading for the sea. Obviously Jessie followed him here - he did tell her that he was coming here. The only question is... why?

He's not going to dwell on that question, though. None of the answers seem particularly pleasent. He puts the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling smoke. He's not bothered by Tam, or scared by him. However, several of the prospects that are suggested simply by Tam's being there...

Well, those are fucking scary.

"I thought you lived in fucking Sheffield!" Tam explodes. There goes the rest of his cigarette. He drops it and the smoking butt fizzles out on the ground.

Perhaps it’s time to take a few more deep breaths. Unfortunately, when Tam does, there’s no longer any nicotine to fill his grateful lungs. He sucks on his fingers with a scowl. The cigarette had lit up far enough to scald them.

As for why Jessie followed him here: who knows? If Tatter does indeed live here that scores out Tam’s theory of elopement.

"I did. Sometimes I do."

It's not like Tatter's got what you'd call a stable... anything, really. Stable job? Stable relationship? Stable life? Nu-uh.

He takes out the pack of cigarettes again and holds it out to Tam. He so obviously needs one. "Now, if you're quite done fuming at me... you're meant to be meeting someone, aren't you?" Tatter eyes the second cup of coffee.

And I'm meant to be getting the hell away from you. And then finding out where you live, so I can avoid ever going anywheres near it. And quite possibly never walking down this street again.

"Naw," Tam replies petulantly. He was going to be back to Kristopher’s house but since she doesn’t know about it, it doesn’t really count as meeting someone.

Tatter is going to have to try quite a lot harder than that if he wants to get rid of him.

"Jesus." The hand not currently holding the coffee cup runs over the stubble on his head. His forehead is almost hot enough to be steaming. "Sorry, y’ken," he says grudgingly. "Jessie left home about five months ago. Ah followed her when she stopped comin’ back. Jus’... seein’ you here, seemed such a coincidence, ah thought you mus’ know somethin’ about it." He squints at Tatter, daring him to prove him right.

"So you usaully drink two posh organic coffees at a time? You must be flush, mate." And while he's on the subject of things Tam does or does not do... What the hell's up with the clothes? Honestly, it's almost as disturbing as an Asda trakkie suit.

"I honestly don't know anything about it. I haven't seen her, or heard from her since I was in Glasgow. Like I said." Back on honest, even and completely solid ground, Tatter feels better. "She doesn't seem the type to up and leave," he adds. Just to be, y'know, sympathetic sounding. Or something. He exhales smoke, and it comes out in normal, silvery spirals.

"Bin buskin’," Tam replies. He’s anything but flush right now. A little flushed round the ears, perhaps. He’s been juggling for his coffee since nothing comes for free and he certainly doesn’t plan on drinking them both at once. He’s still too wary of Tatter to tell him who the other coffee is for.

"She’s not." Jessie’s always been so damn sensible that the chances of her being abducted are above those of her just leaving. He finally takes another one of Tatter’s precious cigarettes and lights it up. This time he’s a lot more careful to control the flame. He shrugs when he extinguishes it, as if to say: hey, what can you do? Girls will be girls. "So who do you know round here?" And are any of them the sort to provide material for an obvious stoner like you?

Tatter shrugs, pocketing the cigarettes with one hand, the other hand bringing his own fag to his lips. "No one interesting, no one much," he informs Tam, keeping his tone vague. He's doing his best to sound bored witless, and he's doing a good job. "Certainly no one you'd be... interested... in."

So Jessie ups and runs off from home, what is it? A month after he'd left, according to Tam. Whether or not Tam is a reliable source of information, Tatter's unsure. She must have been looking for him, though. There's no other reason for her to have come to Bayfield, not that Tatter can think of. Montreal is a better destination, if you were really set on coming to Canada.

"Why're you so sure she's here? She leave you a polite note saying so, or what?"

Tatter might sound bored but Tam sounds equally distracted. It’s hard work trying to recall clues, calm himself down and think about drugs all at the same time. Calming himself down is the main one. He doesn’t want to set his coffee cup on fire again.

"Not exactly," Tam admits grudgingly. "Lara told us she was goin’ to London an’ I found the name of this place from some people there." He shifts position subtly and his back cracks. Tatter’s seen one of Tam’s wig outs in the past. He may or may not extrapolate from that that Tam’s finding out often involves him being a whirring piston of fists, elbows and lead piping when needs must.

Doubtless several people had been severely wounded in the process of Tam's investigations, if memory served Tatter correctly. It didn't usaully. It was abused and resentful. It frequently failed to cooperate. At the moment, Tatter's mostly just pleased he's got ahold of Tam's first name, and nickname. Jessica's name, he hadn't forgotten.

"So, how long have you been here," he asks, "and how carefully have you looked?"

Not to mention 'how many people have died in the Canadian leg of your search?'

Tatter, having a certain amount of tact, doesn't ask that last question.

Tam makes that noise which sounds a bit like ‘parruff’ that certain people make when they’re trying to remember things. "Ehh," he says, counting in his head. His fingers twitch slightly without him noticing it. He’s never been very good at sums. "about... three months?" He didn’t mean it to come out as a question. People who kick other people’s kneecaps in for information should sound more sure of themselves.

He bristles at the hint that he hasn’t been looking hard enough. Three months isn’t that long after all.

"Well, Kittio–" whoops, there’s the girlfriend’s name, too late to take it back now, "we were plannin’ on puttin’ a thing in the paper. Ah was gonna do it later today, i’fact. But hey," he says, brightening considerably, "it’ll be that much easier now you’re here. You can help us keep an eye out."

"Three months," Tatter repeats in a way that suggests he thinks that this is more then enough to time for a person to have found their sister. "Right. I'll keep an eye out, or possibly even two. I may even look." He seriously doubts the effectiveness of an advert in the paper. People who read the paper aren't people who know where people are, if you ask him. He'll ask around.

And when Tatter says 'ask' he means 'ask', not 'smash in your head with a mallet if you don't tell me'. He's nice that way.

"Where have you looked," he asks, trying not to sound overly critical. He doesn't really wanna piss Tam off any more then is unavoidable. Saying that maybe possibly some day you were thinking about putting out an ad hardly counted. If it was meant to be an answer to question 'how carefully did you look', it translated as 'not very.'

See, that’s the thing about Tam: while right now he is undoubtedly pissed off, the next time they’re in mixed company Mark will become ‘Tatter, he’s an old mate! Top guy, knew him back in Scotland. Used to date my sister, the little hooer… Tatter that is, no’ Jessie.’ Followed by laughter and back slappings all round.

"I’ve asked people," he says, keeping his tone purposefully measured. "People in the fazz food district an’ people who know people. Our sort of people." Our sort of people could mean two things, since they only have two things in common. It could mean the sort of people who live at the edges of the law or it could mean the sort of people who can bend the laws of physics. In this case, it means both.

It’s taken a while because he doesn’t know anyone and because Jessie’s a lot better than him at the physics-bending. If she really, really doesn’t want to be found, Tam’s the last person who will be able to find her. There’s probably something interesting in there about the genetics of paramorphic fields. Then again, maybe she just knows how he thinks.

"She probably doesn't want you to find her," Tatter points out. He couldn't imagine anyone actually wanting to be found by Tam. He suspects he'll have better luck. If Jessie's in Bayfield, she's almost certainly there because of him and while therefore be wanting him to find her. He puts out his cigarette on his jeans, absentmindedly. It leaves black circle by the left pocket.

"Look mate, I gotta go."

He'd say it was good to see Tam again, except that it obviously wasn't. It was most unpleasent in and of itself, and it didn't bode well for the future, either.

"I'm in the park most days that the weather's decent," he adds, "or by the mall." Busking, that is. "So if you want me, you can come and find me."

Most people would find it sufficient to give a phone number, or an address, but either Tatter hasn't got them, or he'd prefer Tam not to know them.

Well yeah, there is that, and it’s been preying on Tam’s mind lately, but he feels Tatter didn’t have to put it so bluntly.

"Yeah," he says, invading Tatter’s personal space with a one-handed manhug. The other hand is still holding scalding hot coffee that thanks to Tam’s (literally) fiery temper would still be scalding hot even if not for the insulated sleeve. "Sure I’ll see you around, man." He looks Tatter in the eyes. This is not a threat and not a promise. It’s a statement. Tam will be checking up to make sure Tatter hasn’t seen Jessie.

Tatter’s not looking comfortable. Why ever could that be? Especially when Tam is giving him his friendliest grin. "In fact, I shall look forward to it."

Another sip of the remaining coffee.

Tatter allows himself to hugged by Tam - it's better then alternative, anyway.

"Yeah, that'll be grand," he agrees, to Tam's sentiment of looking forward to seeing him again. Tatter doesn't sound to certain of the grandness of the prospect, and he doesn't really meet Tam's gaze. It's one of those 'honest' sort of gazes and it gives him the chills. Honesty. Ick.


He tips his fingers to his forehead in that hello-goodbye salute that people mostly don't use if they've gone to the university.

Now it's time to run away. Well, not literally run away. What Tatter's doing is more buggering off a dignified trot.