ArchivedLogs:Eric Thinks You're Hot

Eric Thinks You're Hot
... but when doesn't he?
Dramatis Personae Eric, Kyle Whelan
In Absentia	2013-05-01 '
Location <NYC> NYPD Station - Garment District
Despite the fashionable clothing of those outside, almost everyone inside the NYPD station is wearing the same dark blue uniform, gold badges flashing on their chest. A few, however, are in business clothing, and a rare one or two are in crisp white uniforms. The police station is several floors high, each dedicated to a different department, and a rare parking lot in the back where the cruisers and trucks sit. It's been a long day and a long shift -- or two shifts, in Kyle's case, picking up a double to cover for another officer home with his sick kid. But now it is over! And the afternoon is creeping along towards evening, slowly. There's still plenty of sunlight left this time of year but right now Kyle is watching it through the windows, tucked away in the gym at the police station in a pair of black shorts and an FOP t-shirt. There's a bottle of water on the floor to the side of his bench; he's currently loaded up a heavy set of weights for leg-curls. Gruntgruntgrunt. All very sweaty. All very manlike. Grunt. Through the window to the front, a police officer can be seen riding in - side-saddle - and hopping off at the front of the station. For once, it seems, he actually chains up the bike before he comes inside. Eric enters the gym a few moments later, glancing around, and still in NYPD uniform. "Heya, Sarge." he says, giving a little mock-salute, as he heads towards the lockers along the wall. Grunt, is the answer to Eric's greeting. Or maybe it's just a grunt. "Sutton." And another grunt. "Couple've us getting together 'round six for a game, you down?" He probably means basketball. He usually means basketball. Who knows! Today he might be BRANCHING OUT. To. Basketball... in a different location. Eric turns to look at the older man as he strips off his shirt and hangs his jacket neatly in the locker with his name on it. The shirt gets balled up and tossed into a black gym bag, and he retrieves his street clothes. It, in fact, doesn't look all that different - a black NYPD shirt, a little less tight, and a little less official. "Six? Yeah, sure, sounds good. Bars don't get good till late." He winks at the other man, rakish grin in place. "Same place as always?" "Yeah. Same place." So -- not branching out, then. Kyle continues to curl. Leg. Lifting. Updown. Updown. "Fff, on a Wednesday night? Be lucky if the bars /ever/ get good. Guess the beer's the same everywhere, though." At least the shitty kinds Kyle drinks. "Good enough," Eric says, smirk playing at his lips. "Yeah, sounds good. I could use a good game. Spent half the shift leading this fuckin' /herd/ of tourists around. I swear, every time I got away from them, they'd just appear again, lost. How they outran me on the bike, I have no fuckin' idea." "Yeah, I've been suggesting leashes for those fuckers. Maybe designated no-tourist zones?" Kyle's teeth are bared as he works out but tilted /up/ it is definitely a smile, joking and unserious. "/Some/ reason the brass never takes me up on that shit." "I was about ready to call in ESU, have them all gassed for..." Eric shrugs his shoulders, closing his locker with a slam and turning to grin at Kyle. "Malicious touristy-ness?" "Jesus, talk about dickbag tourists, I had some woman pestering me half my shift for a /ride/. Like, the fuck, am I going to put her on my handlebars?" Kyle's smile is a liiittle bit wider. "-- shoulda sent her /your/ way, I bet you'd've obliged." "Never while I'm on shift, I promise, Sarge," Eric says, eyes twinkling mischievously as he raises his right hand into the air. He pauses for a second, and his smile widens. "Now, right /after/," he says, accent thickening as he drawls and winks. "You know it. Save me her number, did'ya?" "Like you'd be the first," Kyle says with a snort. The question earns a smirk, though, and he lets his leg drop slowly, reaching down to take a swig of his water. "S'in my phone," he admits, "only going to be in town through the week. That should give you plenty of time." "Nah, I don't. Not on shift. Not even when I had a car. Scout's honor." A pause. "You should call, Sarge." Eric says, patting down his pants and drawing out a card. He holds it out for the other man's perusal, grin widening. It is, in fact, a gold and silver business card, saying only, "Eric thinks you're hot." and a phone number with a New York area code. Eric's look is spectacularly innocent. Kyle takes the card as he gulps his water. And promptly /chokes/, spluttering water in a cough-gasp-laugh and wiping his hand against his nose with a wince. He /stares/ at the card. Stares at Eric. Staaare. Eric's smile widens, showing a flash of white teeth. "I thought about getting the letters in glitter, but I think that might hav' been too much, yeah?" He says, and gives a spectacularly innocent look. So, so innocent. "Fucking /Christ/, Sutton." Kyle coughcoughs, eyes watering slightly. Still staring at the card. "You seriously give this fucking thing out?" "It's a hit at the clubs." Eric says, brightly, taking a step back and heading back to his locker to tug through his gym bag and retrieve a comb. He glances at the mirror on the door and cleans up his hair a little bit - going from mussed to neatly mussed - as he continues. "Not all the time. Just... in the right atmosphere." Kyle chuffs out a snort, his head shaking. "Only you, Sutton. Jesus. You get more chicks with this thing or dudes? I gotta tell you I can't imagine actually calling someone /back/, they hand me this travesty." "I think about seventy-thirty chicks? Gets me way more girls, that's for sure. 'Course, I give the cards out to a lot more girls than I do guys, so..." Eric shrugs his shoulders, and he grins at Kyle. "That's 'cause I just handed it to ya, straight-up. You gotta do it /right/, ya know?" Kyle swings his leg over the bench, sitting on it sideways, his smile crooked as he looks over Eric. "What, butter me up first?" Another gulp of water. His smile fades nearer a grimaces as he stretches his head to the side, popping his neck one direction then another. "Alright then, pretend," because with his burly crop of muscles it is going to be so easy, "that I'm some hot chick. Or dude. Or whateverthefuck. Hit me." He beckons Eric much as he would if they were /sparring/. "Show me what you got." Eric gives Kyle a look, one eyebrow raising. "I'm not sure ya' want me to do that, Sarge." he hesitates, tilting his head to one side. "I think'ya might get... a little..." The edges of his lips quirk up into a smile and he shakes his head. "A bit... uncomfortable, yeah?" "S'not much I'm scared of in life, Sutton," Kyle tells Eric, so very deadpan. "My ex wife. The IRS. Those manky-ass dumplings at that Chinese joint around the corner. Sure as hell not scared of some pansy-ass queer thinks he's hot stuff." Eric's grin stiffens, and he nods, once. "A'ight." he drawls, and he turns around to walk back to his locker. A moment later, he is turning around and smiling warmly at Kyle, taking several steps towards him. "Hey. Eric." he says, extending a hand and flashing a bright smile at Kyle. "How are ya?" Kyle is still pretty much just deadpan-watching Eric. "Sweaty," he answers. "Oh, shit, that's probably the wrong answer. Should I bat my eyes?" He bats his eyes. It is pretty much like a boulder. Batting eyes. Eric laughs and shakes his head, grinning at Kyle. "I asked you how you were, and if you're sweaty, that's probably the right answer." he says, gesturing to an invisible bar stool next to Kyle. "Mind if I sit here?" he asks, leaning against an equally incorporeal counter. Kyle reaches down for his towel to mop off his forehead but then. THEN. He wraps it around his forehead like a pretty little bonnet to continue the eye-batting. "Why sure, I wouldn't mind the company," he is now attempting to mimic Eric's Southern accent in a falsetto. Except it sounds pretty much how you'd expect if you mashed up a thick Bronx accept with an atrociously mangled Southern one. To his credit, Eric winces as if physically pained only for a moment as the other man adopts the falsetto, and he slips into the invisible seat. You can tell, because his knees are slightly bent. He glances over Kyle's face, and his smile widens. He leans in slightly as he continues. "Glad to hear it. Eric," he says, extending a hand. "Kyle," who is now dropping the falsetto and accent at least as he takes Eric's hand, a firm squeeze of grip. Pump. It's a very /determined/ handshake. "So what. Uh. Now." He swigs at his water again. The bonnet-towel stays on his head, though now that he is not holding it it just /drapes/ there ridiculously. Not that it wasn't ridiculous before. "I never got good at this shit, you know, s'probably why my wife's an /ex/." "You must have done something right, for her to be your wife in the first place." Eric says, with a light laugh. His handshake is warm and firm, and his thumb gently skims over the back of the other man's hand. "Now? We /talk/. Not the hardest thing in the world, I'm sure." he says, eyes twinkling. "What brought you here? Friends, or did you skulk out here on your own?" "Pff I don't know. So long ago whatever the fuck I did I must've forgot." Kyle shrugs a shoulder, a slow roll that ends up leaning into a stretch rather than just shrug. He eyes the stroke of thumb with a kind of bemused look, and then stretches the other shoulder. "I work here. Work out here. Wait, is this a fake bar, shit." Kyle rubs at the back of his neck. "Uh, you gonna buy me a drink?" "Do you want a drink?" Eric asks, raising an eyebrow and smiling at Kyle. "Sure. A drink's on me." He gestures for the invisible bartender in their invisible weight room-cum-bar. "What'd you like? I'll have a Sam Adams." It is, perhaps, a good thing for both their sakes that they are alone in the weight room, lest they both be written up for a psych eval. "I'll have -- what you're having," Kyle says, and this is a little bemused to as he peers over, almost like /expecting/ an invisible bartender. Meanwhile he gulps at his water. Almost like a Sam Adams. "-- s'might be easier in a fucking actual bar. Jesus. How about that game?" "You want to go to a bar with me?" Eric's smile widens and his eyes twinkle. "Game's not bad, but I'm more interested in you." To his credit, he is definitely paying more attention to Kyle than he is to the invisible-TV. "Uh -- shit. Yeah. I guess I do. Fuck, look, you got yourself a /date/," Kyle shakes his head, finally tugging the towel down off it. "Is that how you do it, I think there was some trickery going on. Fake bartender and shit. Messes with the head, man. Hey. You still owe me a beer." He is /so/ collecting on the invisible Sam Adams. Eric grins and he reaches into his pocket. "A date it is." he says, brightly, pulling out a card from his pocket. "Here. Give me a call when you want to claim your beer." It is, in fact, a gold and silver business card with his phone number on it. "Eric thinks you're hot." it says. Kyle /snorts/ again. At least this time he doesn't have water to choke on. "Jesus Christ." He sounds amused. He pockets /both/ his ridiculous cards, standing and idly rolling his towel to thwap Eric with it. In the ass. "See you on the court, Sutton." Eric stiffens for a moment when the towel hits him, and his eyes briefly flash darker. "See you, Sarge." he says, teasing. "At the bar." He gives a little salute, then heads back towards his locker.