Vaughan trooped into the diner with Diane as if he belonged here as equally as he belonged to the fair, as if he were essential for the working of the Diner to continue. His confidence was uncanny, too bad what lay beneath was still a frightened little boy cast into a man’s world too soon and forced to grow too fast.

He lead the way to a booth along the wall and stopped by the edge of the table, he’d almost sat down but remembered his manners, his mother’s voice playing in his head.

”Always let a lady sit first,” she had said, scooping the small child into her lap. The woman was too young to have a child his age.

“Why?”

“Because it’s polite.”

“Why?”

“Because you always let a lady go first, darling.”

“Why?”

She had laughed and kissed his forehead, “because your mother says so, love.”

Vaughan smiled at Diane while he stood, waiting for her to sit. The waiter had watched them troop across to his section. He approached with menus, standing a few steps behind Vaughan, waiting for the couple to sit before serving them.


OOC: Continued from Rollercoaster

"Ooh, very gentlemanly," Diane teases, sliding onto one of the benches. Chivalry may not be dead after all. Although she's never had much time for it. She can pull out her own damn chair, thank you very much. She wonders if it's suprising or obvious that a stripper should have 'proper' manners, but it's a passing thought. She reaches no conclusion and doesn't dwell on it.

She crosses her legs under the table and leans on her elbows. That's not good manners of course, but everyone does it. It's much more comfortable that way, anyway. "Mother, or over-powering girlfriend?"

Vaughan smiled. "Never really had a girlfriend," he replied. He's eighteen, nearly nineteen, and he's never 'really' had a girlfriend? He's been in "relationships" but he's not actually called any of them (fill in the blank)friends. He hesitated before sitting, pausing long enough to grin. "Guess that leaves mother, huh?" He slid into the booth, sliding to the middle and putting one foot up on her side of the bench, closer to the wall then to her.

When Vaughan sat, the waiter swooped in, depositing the menus and asking their drink orders.

"Water. No...lemonaid." He frowned. "No, coke." Then he grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. "If I'm going to blow my diet I may as well blow it to hell, right?" He chuckled.

"Apparently," Diane agrees, shifting slightly away from his foot, which she doesn't regard as decent company. It could have been anyone, really. An aunt, sister, grandmother, or a friend, but she'll take his word for it that it was his mother. She traces circles on the smooth tabletop with one chipped fingernail and then glances up to give the waiter a brazen smile.

"Coke with lemon, please," she requests, wrinkling her nose at Vaughan to show him just what she thinks of his bloody diet. "I don't think you're in much danger of getting fat," she assures him. "You don't look strenuously thin or anything." People who have to diet obsessively to keep their weight down have a certain look to them, like people trying to hard to be funny.

Vaughan shrugged. "Yeah but when it's your looks that pay your rent you don't really have room to go on testing that theory."

He leaned forward to match her position, dropping his foot to the floor and putting his elbows on the table. "It isn't just that I have to look good," he said, "that would be alright. But I'm on stage with ten or more men and I happen to be the shortest and youngest. I have to be compared to their bodies every single night by over a hundred people, all of whom are paying my way." He sighed, then grinned. "Therefor I have to make sure my body stays the way it is or gets better. I'm not a terrible dieter, really. I'm a health food junky."

He kicked one foot against the other a few times. "My dad was like that," he said finally. "A freak dieter. Only, he didn't need it. Never needed it, but he did it anyways."

"Health food junkie," Diane repeats, sounding slightly mystified. As Jessica had noted when she'd crashed at Diane's place some days previous, there was no granola in Diane's cupboard (or anything else, really) and you might as well stop looking. "Rabbit food, more like."

When you look at Diane's attitude towards food, it's really not suprising that she's not skinny. "People mostly don't need to diet. Mostly people are fine on their own."

She's remembering Leslie, smooth olive skin and narrow, elegant wrists. How you could count the ribs that rippled the skin. Leslie, leaning against the counter, smirking and crunching loudly on a carrot.

Diane never really liked carrots.

No rib counting on Vaughan...unless he stretched his arms waaaay up over his head and pointed his toes, straightening the skin and muscle over his chest. He isn't skinny the way a person gets when they diet, really. He's skinny the way a person gets when they exercise often.

"Rabbit food? I didn't know rabbits were omnivours." He grinned. Because Vaughan ate a lot of chicken. He needed more red meat in his diet, seriously. "Food's food," he said finally. Food was something you ate when you got hungry. Of course, his attitude has been such only since he can't afford good food any more. Vaughan used to cook up a storm with his mother...never again.

Never more?

"Haven't you ever seen the Quest for the Holy Grail?"

Because that's obviously the ultimate proof that rabbits will eat just about anything, including tin cans.

Diane's never been much a cook. She can cook reasonably well - the food is edible, anyway - but she's never seen it as art or anything, mostly because when you have to fed a lot of people on a small budget you stop caring about the quality.

The waiter's come back with their drinks. She squeezes the slice of lemon into her glass, turning the dark liquid clouy, and then takes a long sip. Her lipstick leaves a red print on the straw.

Vaughan smiled at the lingering waiter and took a drink, from the cup without the straw and wrinkled his nose. The fizz in carbonated drinks drive his senses crazy, snapping and popping on his tongue, tickling his nose. It even made the corners of his eyes itch a little.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Vaughan turned to the waiter as if he'd forgotten he was there at all. "Fries." He smiled. "Lots of fries. Two orders?" he asked Diane.

Diane nods, "yeah, please," she says. She can eat an amazing quantity of chips with very little effort. She winks amiably at the waiter as he hurries off and then turns her attention back to Vaughan. "Now, what are we going to talk about?"

It's not intended as a flashy 'I'm bored' signal. It's simply a question meant to gain understanding of what he'd like to discuss. After all, she doesn't know him very well, so she's got no idea of what he's interested in.

He smiled at her while she winked at the waiter. A girl after his own heart right there.

He considered her question for a moment longer then most people would have done. He knew nothing about her either, which was dangerous when said person left it up to him to decide what he wanted to talk about.

"You, of course," he replied as if it should have been very obvious. "Where are you from? Here?"

She laughs and takes another sip of her coke, shaking her head. "Nope, we don't talk about me," she informs him. "This is me," she says, gesturing at herself with one hand. "All that you see and no more. Not that you need to know about, anyway."

He should be able to tell from her accent, anyway, that she's not from there. It's a comfortable American drawl, as of yet untainted by the Ontarians.

"Well we should," he told her. "I bet you'd make a very good story." He smiled.

"Fine," he said at last. "What do you want to talk about then, since your story is off limits." He took another drink from the cup and then unwrapped the straw, stabbing it through the ice and then using it to push the ice around.

"You make it sound like I've got one," she points out, laughingly. She's playing her straw, pulling the coke halfway into it and then putting a finger over the end to keep it there. She moves her finger up and down, letting the pop drip back into the glass drop by drop. "It would be a mistake to assume that, you know."

"Everyone has a story," he replied smartly. "Even if it is a boring one." He watched her play with her straw in a whole different way and wondered if that said something about their personalities. It's the sort of thought that only people who wonder if a butterfly flapping it's wing half way around the world would cause a hurricane would think.

"It would be a mistake to assume what?" he asked. "that you have a story or that your story is off limits?"

"Either one," she says. She's put her straw down and is now fishing the lemon out of the coke so that she can eat it. "I haven't got one, and if I did... well, everything's available for a price. You should know that by now."

That's meant to be a commentary on their previous conversation, not on his occupation.

His occupation isn't really a price sort of thing. He works for dollars, nickles if it's offered. A prostitute works for a price. Hell, business men worked for a price. They would take no less then what they wanted. Vaughan would take whatever was given to him happily.

"What price would that be?" he asked, then he grinned. "How about your coke. I only offered to buy your fries." He laughed because it was silly. "How about more fries another day?"

"You clearly stated pop and fries," Diane says, accusingly. "And it doesn't really matter, cause if you think I've got money on me, you're sorely deluded."

Really she's not sure that she ever wants to see Vaughan again. Not that he's bad company, but he gets under skin. Not in the conventional way, but like an idea might. Sticking there and worrying. He scares her a bit.

Vaughan gives you something to think about. He's not exactly a conventional sort of boy.

People don't like to think. People also don't like different. She's different, why can't he be....he has some very childish arguments, doesn't he?

"Yeah, yeah. Pop and fries. But I won't give you the vinegar!" he threatened, snatching the glass bottle off of the table top and holding it hostage.

Diane gives the vinegar a supressed smile. It's amazing how immature men can be. "You're bargaining for something that doesn't exist," she reminds Vaughan, stretching the smile out a bit. She takes another sip of coke. "Oh, look. The waiter."

Not to point out the obvious or anything. She takes a chip off the plate that's set in front of her and eats it thoughtfully before reaching for the salt shaker.

She smiles at the waiter, reading his nametag. "Oh... Brian... could you get me some vinegar? Thanks."

He pouts. He puts the bottle back on the table. "You are evil." he says in a flat line tone. Then he smiles.

"So you're American, obviously. How American?" It's an odd question. What he means is from where. He knows that she isn't from Alabama or Ohio or some place like that. They have these swanky little lilting accents and draws that makes it damn near impossible to figure out what a 'crick' or a 'ruff' is. His father came from that area and he in fact knows that a crick is a creed and a ruff is a roof, but he also knows she isn't southern and she isn't Appalachian.

She takes the vinegar and turns it upside down over her chips. "Not very American," she admits, putting the vinegar back down eating another chip."Well, I live here. That should do bad things to be overall score on the 'How American Are You' test. But you shouldn't say things are obvious. You must know they rarely are. These are really good chips, eh?"

The last word probably killed her - she's never gonna pass the American test now.

He smiled. "A lot of people flee America," he told her.

His parents had, though his mother was only American by citizenship. She'd been born in Dutchland...or maybe it had been Norway. He wasn't sure, though he did know that his name was Danish. However, his name was also Welsh. Maybe that was it...she was from Wales. He waved the thought away by waving his hand dismissivly and returned his attention to her.

"Well if you aren't American, are you Canadian?" The eh...it's Canadian right? He ought to know, he's lived here his entire life. It's funny that he speaks with absolutly no accent at all, or at least with one that can't be placed as Dutch, Welsh, American, or Canadian. Maybe something...Island-ish? Nah.

He took over the vinegar again and poured it over his own fries, popping two in his mouth before salting the rest.

"Yeah, the Northern border is a mighty tempting thing when you're in the States," Diane agrees. She's playing with the straw again, poking ice cubes around with it. "I'm from Gallifrey, really."

She doesn't expect him to know that Gallifrey is the long since destroyed planet of the Time Lords. It's not the sort of thing people in Canada bother knowing. He'll probably think it's a town in Manitoba or something. Towns in Manitoba have funny names. Gimli, for instance.

"Nah, I am a Canadian, I guess. I mean, that's what it says on passport, for all that counts."

He grinned. "Passports say a lot and tell very little," he replied.

Oh look, this person has a stamp in their passport for Brazil. Neat. Now what does that actually say about the person, other then the fact that they're crazy and they like the warm weather? Absolutly nothing.

Vaughan popped a few more french fries in his mouth and chewed while he considered her answer. "What's Gallifrey?" Not where. What? That leaves a world of possibilities. What? A country? A town? A state?

Maybe later he'll ask where...after he knows what.

"It's a planet," Diane explains, munching on a chip. "In a British TV show. The best TV show ever, actually."

This, obviously is a fact, not merely her opinion.

"But you're from around here, aren't you? Or have you just lived here for ages and ages? What's your passport look like? Any interesting stamps?"

Her passport has no stamps, simply because border-guards are lazy and can't be bothered, unless you ask them to do it as a souvenir. She's never been bothered to do so.

"Oh." he said, and then as if he were taking her word as a matter of fact and not oppinion and as though that fact had been prooven six times over to him he added, "Can you rent the series at a video store?" He'll try anything once.

Anything.

It's almost sad.

"Nah. I've never even been outside of the city," he told her and he sounded as if he were quite content with that fact. "Least," frown, "not that I can remember." He ate more fries, sipped the coke, stabbed the ice with the straw and went back to the fries. "My pop was born in The Big Apple. Mom was born..." he waved his hand back and forth, "somewhere else. She came to America and met my pop. I was born here but I guess I'm a product of New York and somewhere else." He shrugged.

"Probably not. They don't go for it much here. It's on TV sometimes, though, or you could get it online." Her tone is definately that of a person without a television. She has no idea what time or channel the show's on. She assumes, however, that there are places people can find things like that out.

She shakes some more vinegar onto her chips and continues eating them at a reasonable pace, pausing to talk. "But you've never gone to NYC?" She sounds mildly horrified at the idea. "You poor, poor thing. It's fantastic. It's pretty much a mixing bowl that way, though. Throw everything in, shake it up and come out with... well, you, apparently. I mean, cities are just like that. But New York more so then usaul."

"Oh." he said again. Vaughan didn't own a computer. He did own a laptop but it probably hadn't been opened in seven months or more. He did have a television but without cable so only the basic channels, even so, he usually kept the tele unplugged anyways.

"A mixing bowl?" He smiled. "I'd like to think I came out just fine," he said in his defense, but the grin on his face never slipped. He ate more fries while shaking his head. "Nope. Never been to New York," he repeated. "Parents didn't have the time or the money and since they...'re gone I have even less money. Not sure I'd go anyways. I'm happy right where I am."

"You would like to think that."

She smirks in a way that suggests she thinks he didn't, and then adds, seriously, "How can you be happy here?" She's mowing right on past the dead parents. Life doesn't have time to stop for dead parents, if you ask her. "I mean, Bayfield's grand and all and I love it as much as the next person. But staying here? That'd be horrible. Living your life in stasis." She wrinkles her nose. "Stay still too long and you'll turn into a statue, y'know. That's why so many small towns have art miles."

"What?" he asked, mocking offense. "You don't think I turned out alright? And here I am paying for your fries and your drink." He shook his head, but then he smiled. He shrugged. "Still. I think I'm alright either way."

He wrinkled his nose. "I guess I wouldn't mind taking a trip but I'm ok with just staying here. I don't have the money to travel," he told her. "I can't even pay my way through college yet, let alone go running off to the Big Apple or Los Vegas or something." He leaned back, straightening out of a slouch. His back popped and he slouched again.

"Where would you go?" he asked. More fries. Mouthful: "if you could go anywhere right now?"

"Exactly. Paying for the services of questionable young women," Diane chides, as if she thinks this is very low indeed. She sips her coke. "People always think they're right, but they aren't. I am."

Then she laughs. "College? My gawd, you're a bit posh, aren't you? You've got aspirations, sweetheart."

Whether this is meant to be encouraging or is merely a hilarious idea is unclear. "I've got no money either," she adds, "but I've only just gotten here, so I'm not in a rush to get out. It'll be a while yet before I find my toes getting all marbled. Then probably I'll hitchhike... somewhere. Quebec, maybe, for starters. I fancy Montreal."

"I didn't think you were questionable," he replied, then he narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, looking at her as if she were suspect. "Although I have my doubts now." He seemed serious.

Then he smiled.

The smile doesn't ever leave his lips for very long.

He didn't seem taken aback at all at her finding his 'aspiration' funny. "Yes. I want to be a teacher. Apparently you need a degree to go even that." He shook his head. "I'm sure today you need a degree to collect garbage. I even had to take a dance class before my boss would hire me. I danced great but he fancies the idea of his dancers have professional something or other." Shrug.

"I guess I could hitchhike. And i'm sure I could get a job anywhere." He shook his head and shrugged. "Like I said, I'm comfortable here. Where would you go after that?" 20 questions, anyone?

"You probably should," Diane nods solemnly. Yes, she is a questionable girl. And Vaughan's definately asking her a lot of questions.

"A teacher," she repeats. "You're fucking insane, darling. Completely crazy. Teaching involves children. Oh, wait. You're the one with the boy and the girl and the house with the white picket fence... Which pretty much proves you're unbalanced. Does it come with a blonde smiling wife who makes chocolate chip cookies... Wait, no. Diet. Uhm, makes... ants on a log?"

"Comfortable isn't what I'm after," she informs Vaughan, giving him a smirk. "C'mon, how vanilla would that be? But I don't know where I would go next. Somewhere on this continent, I suppose."

Just because she couldn't afford airfare.

"All the more reason to learn more about you," he told her. "Keep your friends close and your...questionable friends closer." He chuckled.

"I like children," he protested, but when she went into her white picket fence theory he looked suprised, resistant. He shook his head. "No, no," he told her. It was possibly the most firm thing he'd said all evening. "I don't want a picket fence. I might want kids, I haven't decided," he said. "Maybe." Then he smiled. "Blondes aren't really my type."

He popped more frnechfries into his mouth and now that the top layer was gone he poured more vinegar onto them. "If I went anywhere in the world besides this I'd go to Mexico. You know, cause everyone talks about it. I'd like to see what the fuss is about. Ever been there?"

"I prefer people at at least an arm's length, thanks," Diane says cooly, reaching for another chip.

"Awww, no? How can you not like blondes?" She's gonna dismiss Vaughan as a seriously lost cause at this rate. The mere mention of blondes conjures up Leslie again. Spiked peroxoide blonde hair, almost white at the tips and black at the roots. "Picket fences, on the other hand, I have a serious dislike of. I can sympathise with that. No one should have picket fences."

She nods. "There are a lot of balloons there. And signs on the subway, saying that you can't take them on the train. I liked it. But I like anywhere, so I don't suppose it matters. You can't really base a judgement on it."

"Which is why you kissed me today," he replied to her arms length away comment. Then he grinned and it wasn't innocent or seductive, this one was devilish, evil contained in a young innocent body. "Twice."

He blinked. "You like blondes? They're either natural and silly or they're unnatural and artificial," he said, then waved his hand. "No, that was unfair. Really I don't like blondes because blonde is just too...yellow. Too flower-ish. Red heads are hot and dark hair is sexy." As if that was a good reason not to like blondes.

"Ballons? Why ballons?" he asked. "You can get those anywhere in the world." He leaned forward on the edge of the seat. "I hear you can get snake skin cowboy boots for cheap there." Now what would a stripper need cowboy boots for I wonder....

Diane ignores this first remark. She has nothing she particularly wants to say on that subject.

"I like blondes," she confirms. "It's glam. And there's something just... cool about it. When you're brunette and have awful hair, having someone else's shiny pale hair to play with is just so much fun."

"You can't get balloons anywhere in the world if you happen to live in Mexico, though." She shrugs. "It's still kind of zen. Possibly you have to see it. All those awful pastels and neons and Mickey Mice and Dora the Explorers pulling on their strings, against the red clay walls. It has a certain contrast."

He chuckled because she ignored his comment.

"You can play with my hair," he replied, giving his curls a shake. "If you aren't afraid I'll bite." He still sounds less innocent then before. He has been picking up on her hesitant feelings about him and he's just decided to speak the truth, thats all. Then it fades, just like that, because he smiled.

"I guess I'll just have to go see what the attraction is for myself because I don't really get it." He ate more fries, stabbed the ice in his drink. It was melting fast and that annoyed him a little bit.

"It's like mine used to be," she says, dismissively. And not blonde. She likes fine blonde hair. And yes, she is afraid he'll bite. Metaphorically, not literally. She doesn't care so much about the literal biting. She twirls a chip between her finger for a moment before popping it into her mouth.

She's thinking that she might go west from Montreal. All the way out to B.C, but that's a hell of a long way. By the time she got there, she might actually have money. Ha ha.

But she's just being silly and day-dreaming. She's not really going anywhere anytime soon, except possibly to hell in a handbasket.