@dexfitz, @phaekings
Breakfast was usually uneventful. Emphasis on the usually.
Faust knew where he sat, who he sat with, and that the food was going to suck. Beyond that, nothing of note tended to happen.
Case in point: Faust was in the middle of wagering his firstborn child for the apple on Phaedra’s plate (it looked a lot greener and crisper than his). This was a typical conversation for the two of them, and would have continued as such, had the distraction not caused Faust’s words to stutter to a halt. Name of said distraction: Dexter Fitzgerald, nonchalantly taking the seat across from them.
Faust stared at Dexter, blinked, let his gaze bounce between Phaedra and Dexter uncertainly, before finally settling on the older man.
“...Hi?” Are we in trouble? were the unspoken words on his lips. He knew better than to ask.
He didn’t know why the man was there. They’d never had too many chances to interact beyond the daily slog of work, and Faust always considered Dexter his superior in that regard. Considering someone your superior puts up an invisible wall that makes conversation...challenging.
Despite this, Faust was always willing to try, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to allow the silence that had settled over the table to continue.
“You’re looking like death warmed up this morning, Mr Fitzgerald,” Faust said, tone almost forcefully chipper, “And might I add, sir,” he paused to take a bite of his breakfast, “big mood.”
