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Shut Up and Drive [Hahvy & Bathos]

Bathos

Super-Earth
Joined
Nov 11, 2009
The golden wash of sunset was retreating behind the shelter of the Chicago skyline, limning the uppermost point of the Willis Tower for one still moment, like the star atop a Christmas tree, before it faded altogether and the buildings settled into the hazy gray of dusk. Windows blinked awake across the cityscape in quick, sporadic bursts until the sky was once again illuminated, now with artificial light.

Frank Bishop watched night descend from his vantage point in a deserted parking lot, far enough from the epicenter of the city that there were no tall buildings obscuring his view of the night sky. He felt apart from the city here, in the quiet, but he knew it wouldn't last. Once full dark arrived, as it was due to do any moment now, the kids would arrive in a caravan of sleek, custom cars, filling the abandoned lot to capacity with their bright lights and their thumping sound systems and their youthful aggression.

With a sigh, Frank pushed off the hood of his gleaming black 1969 Dodge Charger and stood to his full height, just shy of 6'3", and checked his watch. Any minute now, the place would explode with noise and activity. Frank hated visiting the races, watching all the hard work he and other technicians poured into some trust fund kid's ricer rendered obsolete by amateur driving and sheer ineptitude. But every once in a while there came along a set of wheels so cherry that he couldn't resist his burning desire to see it in action.

Tonight was just such a night.

Frank wasn't a regular at the races, but he was by no means a stranger to them, either. Half the kids came to him or one of his associates for all their custom work and half who didn't at least knew somebody who did. He had enough of a reputation, at least, that when some fool's exhaust started pumping white with a blown gasket, on more than one occasion it was followed by the fearful words, "Bishop is gonna be pissed."

He stuck out like a sore thumb, too, standing taller than most of the drivers, with broader shoulders and a head of striking black hair that was perpetually disheveled due to his tendency to poke his head into an engine at a moment's notice. He came straight from work, so he fully looked the part of the greaser, as well, his muscular chest and big, corded arms encased in an oil-stained t-shirt that may, at one point in its career, have been white but was now something more accurately described as 'grayish.' His jeans were in an equal state of disrepair, but since he only wore black, it wasn't quite so obvious in the dimness under the single burning light pole.

Not long after he checked his watch, a buzzing rose up in the distance, steadily growing into an angry growl of dozens of tricked out engines making their way to the meet-up. Soon, a long line of headlights was visible down the previously empty highway, and Frank's broad mouth pulled into an ironic, gleaming white grin.

"Here come the troops," he said to himself.
 
As night fell, the hoard of racers filed into the parking lot, forming their little rows and columns of race car perfection. The women soon took up residence, filing out to strut their barely clad bodies and hit on the drivers, some knowing what they were talking about- others simply eye-candy for the hormone-laced drivers. Romulus Abel was not amongst them, yet. He always took his time coming to the lots, fiddling with certain gadgets and additions he had put into his car. He had had his own mechanic- his sister, Tira. But he no longer had her. Feeling grief start to seep back into his bones and burn like acid behind his eyes, he turned up his music and pushed on the gas pedal, changing gears as he went. He soon made his entrance into the lot, heavy metal blaring as his red, silver, and black McLaren F1 slid gracefully amongst the other cars. Most of the drivers here had Hondas, Chevys, and other cars they had destroyed and rebuilt. But Abel's car was much different. He had resurrected his fine piece of work from the ashes of a graveyard and built it up completely with his sister.

As he pulled into the lot into his designated spot, he swallowed back his grief and stepped out of his vehicle, turning off the car as he did. He probably wasn't going to race tonight since he had a few kinks to work out with his vehicle, but he made it a habit to show and give advice to other drivers. He wasn't much older than the others, being only 23, but he knew his stuff. Looking around with eyes of amethyst mixed with streaks of jade, Abel gave practiced smiles and handshakes to those who knew him. Several women sauntered up to him, and he took in their skankified forms, but he felt nothing. His grief had killed any sex drive or stirrings of arousal he may have once had. The drivers who knew him personally gave him knowing looks- both sad and sympathetic. The wound was still fresh as he scanned the crowd, black and red hair swaying with his movements. His body structure was like most drivers: buff yet sleek, well proportioned. He had a handsome face, though marred with a few scars on his left cheek like claw marks and a cut across his nose just below his eyes. Abel was half Native American and half Irish, lending him features of both that added to his appeal, especially his tempting light brown skin.

As he scanned the crowd, his gaze stumbled upon whom could only be Frank Bishop. He was taller than the others, including Abel who stood at 5'11''. As he took in the man's demeanor, he found himself feeling odd but he shook the feeling off as he started walking in that direction, greeting several drivers. But he wasn't attached to these drivers much anymore. Not after what happened. Hell, he would never be the same again. Yet the stars winked above them and he soon heard the roars of engines as two races started at the other end of the parking lot. He took in the sounds and smells like a man in the desert does water. This was his element and besides, he needed Bishop to check out his ride.​
 
"Uh oh, Daddy's watching," trilled a pretty young girl as she slid out the passenger side of a Lancer. Frank scarcely recognized her. She was one of the groupies, as Frank had come to think of them, who flocked to the races in search of men and a certain kind of groupie status. Occasionally, one of them would set her sights on him, but he'd long ago mastered the fine art of the cool dismissal, so for the most part they steered clear of him.

Except, of course, when they were busting his balls.

"Not even gonna touch that one," Frank said, still smiling.

A couple of drivers came to bend his ear and, though Frank wasn't technically on the clock, he didn't mind sharing his wisdom with a few overly eager kids. He actually found it comforting when the drivers took an active interest in actually learning about their vehicles. It gave him hope for the future.

Frank nodded slowly as a man of about twenty went on about problems he was having with his cold-air intake, his dark eyes scanning the expanding crowd all the while. He hadn't spotted his pet project yet and he was starting to wonder if it was even going to show.

"Sounds like you need a bypass filter," he said absently. "Moron who installed it should have told you that and--"

His attention fell on a young man with dark skin, black and red hair, and a curious sort of expression on his face.

"... ought to have his license taken away. Hydrolock ..."

He was slim, but well built, and he had these mesmerizing scars that could have been considered disfiguring to some, but Frank found they enhanced the exotic picture he made.

"... pretty common ..."

Frank had no idea what he was saying, anymore. And the boy with the intake problem was starting to look at him funny.

"You all right, Bishop?"

Frank shook his head to clear it and flashed the youth a broad smile. "Yeah, fine. Look, could you excuse me? I think there's-- Yes, there's something I need to take care of. Sorry, excuse me."

Frank smoothly sidestepped the small gathering of people, and started for the boy with the scars, strolling at an unhurried pace but with obvious purpose. He met him halfway, and stopped short. He was certain that the young man had been heading in his direction, too, so he didn't bother introducing himself. He just lifted his eyebrows, looking down his long, straight nose at the stranger with a faint smirk.

"Hello," he said. His voice was deep, matching his size, but clear and smooth. "You look like you might need a little help."
 
Abel had never met Bishop before in his life, but he wasn't the kind of person you could miss. As Abel walked, he had seen the taller man head in his direction, but his stride didn't falter, even as he felt a strange fluttering in his stomach. He attested it to the fact that Frank Bishop was one hell of a mechanic and practically at legendary status amongst drivers who could get him to look at their prized possessions. Still, when the older, taller, and more muscular man met him half way and spoke, he found that for a moment, he didn't have a thing to say. But he recovered quickly enough.

"Yes. I'm..Abel, and I wondering if the dreaded Bishop might have the time to take a glance at my car. My..."

He took a deep breath as he closed up a moment before he got right back on track with the conversation.

"Mechanic is no longer able to do check-ups and whatnot on my baby, and I think there is something wrong with the fuel injectors and NOS."

He finished finally. His voice was soft, rich in a certain accent that was hard to place. He certainly wasn't from around here, but as he looked up at Bishop, he found himself discretely checking the other man out. It rattled his senses for a moment, but perhaps it was the grief? He wasn't sure and hardened himself against anything he might have been starting to feel. He wasn't here to have a good time and make friends or anything. He was here to make sure his and his sister's car got the right treatment.​
 
The dreaded Bishop.

Frank's mouth split wide into an amused grin, the force of his smile bunching the corners of his eyes. He knew well his reputation as a grouch, had suffered a fair amount of playful ribbing on account of it, but he had no idea his reputation preceded him to strangers.

"Well, as I'm sure you know, Abel," Frank said in a slow, low drawl, "the dreaded Bishop's schedule is damned near full through December." It was an exaggeration, but Frank figured on a hunch that Abel wouldn't know that. "So, if I'm gonna take a look at your nitrous system, what's in it for me?"

While Frank did have a tendency to be surly and anti-social, he actually enjoyed looking at cars, even when they were in shambles. He was usually busy before the races, when he actually attended, doling out free advice to anyone who asked. He never asked 'what's in it for me,' but then so few of the kids around had something he wanted.

Abel might not be an exception, but Frank couldn't resist testing the waters.
 
At the grin, Abel felt that stirring in his stomach heighten and he squelched the feeling as best he could. What was wrong with him? Shaking his head lightly, knowing that the hinting of a blush was coating his dark cheeks, he kept his ground as he stuffed his hands into pockets. Listening to the man speak, he simply nodded, knowing that the man would be busy. At the question tacked on at the end, Abel's eyes got a little big. What was that suppose to mean?

"I'm not sure what you might want...I mean, obviously I could pay you. What is it that you might be interested in?"

He asked, looking up at the taller man. Why did he get the feeling that it would be a more..personal thing? Steeling himself against the elder man, he felt his mind swim with imagery he had never conjured up before in his life. Rubbing his left arm idly out of nervous habit that he hadn't practiced in years, he felt his cheeks heat up further, though his skin color hid most of the redness.​
 
Frank's grin settled into something closer to a smirk. This Abel guy was quick to fluster; he could tell by the way the faintest hint of color crept into his cheeks. But he didn't get angry, Frank noted. That wasn't necessarily a good sign, but it sure as hell wasn't a bad one, either.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, brow furrowing as if he were thinking really hard about what Abel might have that interested him. He even looked him over once, real leisurely like, from the top of his oddly colored hair down to his toes and back up again.

"Tell you what," he said at length, still slow and lazy, "let's just have a look. If it's somethin' I can fix, we'll work a deal. If not, no harm, no foul. Show me to your ride."
 
Abel could feel that gaze roam over him and he stiffened at the feel of it. It wasn't an everyday thing to get checked out in such a calculated way. And it did upset him in some way, but he had to keep a cap on his emotions or he might end up swinging, and Frank hadn't done much to deserve that kind of lashing. The driver who took away Tira did. And more. Feeling that searing anger build up along with the gut-wrenching sorrow, he grit his teeth and nodded to the mechanic, not trusting himself to speak as he wrestled with himself. Taking a breath, he managed to say,

"This way."

And motioned to Frank as he walked away from the core of the parking lot. He was more towards the back, where he always liked to be and soon enough, they were at his baby-his pride and joy. Several guys and gals were checking out his ride with its black and silver racing stripes and red body. It was a classic in the racing world and wasn't one of the newer McLaren F1s. It was a few years old and had had to be completely revamped, so it had it's own twist on the legendary design. Abel glided his hands along the hood as he looked over to Frank, before stepping back.

"Here she is."

There was obvious pride but underneath it, pain laced through. moving to the trunk, he popped it up, revealing a beautifully rebuilt engine with all the fixings.​
 
As Frank stepped around the line of cars and first set eyes on Abel's, he let out a low whistle. This was a pleasant surprise. Though Frank himself would only rest his own ass inside a creation conceived entirely on American soil, he could recognize beauty in all vehicles, and the McLaren F1 was an obvious gem. They were hell to work on for collision repairmen and body specialists, on account of the design, but for Frank they were a joy. The engine was simple and easy to navigate, compliments of BMW.

Eying the car as he came around, as if it were the form of some particularly voluptuous woman, Frank stepped slowly around to the trunk and peered inside.

"Honest, Abel, I don't know why you even bother with NOS in this thing," Frank grumbled, but that was just the way he talked when he was getting down to business. "This car was damned near perfect just the way she was. Turbo kit would've been kinder, these beemers have a tendency to overheat real quick."

He stopped rambling a moment and glanced up at Abel. "What's your malfunction?"
 
"Nothing to concern yourself with."

He said, his eyes hardening as he turned around and let Frank do his thing. NOS had been his idea and he and his sister had been setting it up before everything went wrong. But he hadn't fully installed it and was considering ripping the whole thing out, but he needed someone to help him remove it because of where it was placed. His hands, though slim and almost delicate on him, were too big to get to the bolts holding it in place and he didn't have a lift handy.

"Didn't think about the turbo kit, but we were considering it. Things just didn't work out that way, however. I'm thinking of removing it, since it isn't fully installed, but I can't get to it and I can't use the lift at the garage just yet."

He said, stepping over any unwanted questions, he hoped. But then he remembered that he said 'we' and felt like an idiot. But he hoped Bishop wouldn't notice. He didn't need that kind of digging going on. But before he knew it, Rina, a sassy little red head was sauntering over to him and he visibly cringed. Rina had been one of his sister's lovers, and the look on her face said she was angry, upset, and wanted to talk with him about the ordeal.

"Where have you been? And who is this touching Tira's car? I know you bought it, but..."

He nodded sheepishly as he looked at Rina. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, which was probably true. She glared up at him with puffy, red-rimmed eyes and yet was still able to pull off her swanky yet sexy little black number.

"Rina...not now."​
 
Frank's eyes widened at Abel's cold retort, momentarily confused. Then it dawned on him, in stages, that Abel thought Frank wanted to know about his malfunction, when really all he had wanted to know about was the car. At least right then. He started to laugh and even made as if to explain himself to Abel, but he was cut off by a tiny little redhead in an even tinier outfit.

Rina, Abel called her, and Frank spared the car one more glance before stepping away from it. Rina was obviously riled that he was checking it out, and she looked like she'd been crying or was about to cry or a combination of the two. Frank didn't care for crying women, so he raised his hands in a universal sign of peace and took a couple shuffling steps away from the McLaren.

"Bishop," he offered to Rina. "Frank Bishop. And I wasn't really touching it, just having a look. Abel here was just seeing if I thought I could straighten out the engine for 'im and, incidentally"--he turned toward Abel--"I can. Easy job, and the right move if you ask me. One overheat on nitrous and you've blown your engine. And they don't make replacements for this one. You should bring her by tomorrow morning, early if you can. Oh--"

Frank fished into his jeans for his wallet and pulled free a business card. It didn't have any graphics on it or any flash. It listed his name, business, and contact information in plain black text on a white background.

"Here ya go. Eight o'clock work for you?"
 
Rina didn't take his offered hand, instead she seemed almost like she would break down as she stepped towards Abel and pressed against him as if he would offer protection. The pair of them listened to Frank talk, and Abel could have smacked himself. It's not like Frank knew anything about why Rina might be upset or why Abel had snapped at him. But it was in the past at the moment. Taking the business card, he nodded.

"It should be fine. Thank you."

He pocketed the business card and turned to look down at Rina. The look on her face spoke of some betrayal, and he knew why. He looked almost guilty as he spoke to the woman in a soft voice.

"I'm sorry, Rina. But it isn't like Tira is around to look at the car anymore, much less anything else. You should go back to Derek and have him drive you home. Why did you even come here?"

The last question was mumbled as he brushed some hair from Rina's eyes. She sniffled and nodded before giving him a tight hug. She spoke just loud enough for Frank to hear, despite that she didn't know it.

"You better find the one who murdered her."

Brushing aside some of Abel's hair, Rina nodded before she sauntered away, wiping her eyes as she did so. Abel leaned against his car as if in pain before he turned to see if Frank had heard the exchange of if he had already left.​
 
Some pieces were starting to slot together for Frank, about the car and about Abel, himself. The name, Tira, only vaguely rang a bell in his mind, but with the murmured mention of murder, he was able to jump to his own conclusion. Tira had been murdered, she was the chief technician on the McLaren, and Abel had been close to her. So had this Rina woman, apparently.

Frank heard things from his clients. Either they talked directly to him or they didn't bother lowering their voices when speaking amongst themselves. He knew there had been a murder of a young woman, and had a vague idea of the underlying conflict, but he kept this to himself.

Frank cleared his throat awkwardly, suddenly made uncomfortable by the bizarre display of affection going on before him. "Well, then," he said stiffly, "I'll see you tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a race to watch."

Without waiting on a response from Rina or Abel, Frank pivoted on his heel and headed back for his car.
 
Abel looked at Frank before looking away with a soft nod as the man walked away to watch a race. The younger man wasn't sure if he could stay now that he had seen Rina. He had been avoiding the woman for the past few weeks, dodging calls and messages left and right. Then again, he had pretty much avoided anyone connected with Tira. Rubbing his face, he watched Frank's retreated back before closing the trunk and getting into his car. Several other drivers tried to talk to him, to see what was up, but he was already revving the engine to warn people he was leaving.

Abel drove back to his place which he had shared with Tira and parked it in the garage, locking it up tight before wandering into his home. He took out the business card that Frank had given him and put it up on the fridge. Checking the time, he saw how late it was getting and decided to catch a shower before heading off to bed. He rinsed away the worries and sorrows and weights that were dragging him down for the night before slipping into bed, hair still wet. He turned on some low music before falling asleep, wondering how tomorrow was gonna go. And vaguely how excited he was to see Frank in the morning.​
 
Frank crawled home around midnight. He parked his car in one of the main bays of Bishop's Garage, since he didn't trust it out on the street and there was already another vehicle taking up space in his personal garage. He lived in a converted apartment above the garage. The stair access was in the back, though there was also a door leading upstairs from inside the garage itself, adorned with a sign reading "No customers beyond this point." There was a doggy door in the bottom.

Frank was greeted at the door by Girl, an aging chocolate-and-white Brittany. She wagged her tail enthusiastically at Frank and led him directly to the bedroom. She had learned his habits so well by now that she folded herself up calmly at the foot of the bed and watched him expectantly as he undressed, splashed water over his face, and got into bed. When he flipped the bedside lamp off, she jumped up on the bed and wriggled into a comfortable position pressed up against his legs.

"Nuisance," he murmured affectionately, and then he was out faster than the lamp.

Morning came quickly, Frank's alarm trilling cheerfully at exactly seven o'clock, followed by the press of a cold, wet nose against his neck.

"I'm up," he croaked, and swung out of bed. He showered after feeding Girl, shaved, and slipped into his uniform--black jeans and a grease-stained t-shirt. The smell of coffee rose up from the garage, where the automatic timer had started the brewing process at 7:30.

Frank came clomping down the steps, Girl carefully picking her way down the stairs behind him, and opened the first bay door. Girl trotted off to relieve herself and Frank went directly to the gritty coffee machine in the corner, poured himself a cup, and sat with it, shoulders slumped and face tired, waiting for the first client of the day.
 
Abel rolled out of bed just before seven and did his usual morning routine: Shower, change, make breakfast, do the dishes, and then get ready to go out. It took him the same amount of time as it usually did, though he had this nagging feeling that he was way too excited to have Bishop work on his car. He felt like adrenaline had been pumped into his veins along with some semblance of being alive again. And only because the man was planning on working on his car. He found it stupid and idiotic that he was so thrilled and berated himself the whole drive to the Bishop Garage.

When he arrived it was just about eight AM, and he pulled up slowly, just tapping the horn to give the warning that he was here since you never knew when Bishop might be busy. He waited a moment, turning down his music and glancing at the picture of Tira that hung from the rear-view mirror. He took it gently in his hand and just stroked a finger over it before putting it back and sighing lightly to himself. Forcing himself to at least look a tiny bit friendly and not so mowed down, he put on a small smile as he waited for Bishop.​
 
Frank slid from the stool where he sat, coffee mug still in hand, and paced out to the open bay door. Setting eyes on Abel and his McLaren was not the worst way he could imagine starting the day, and before he was aware of what was happening, a smile stretched the corners of his mouth, his eyes still half-lidded and soft with sleep. The resulting effect was an expression that was really only fit for the bedroom.

Remembering himself after a moment, Frank put up his hand, palm in, and crooked four fingers in a gesture for Abel to pull his car on into the empty bay. He walked backward as he did, and when the McLaren was centered over the gap in the concrete floor, he presented his wide, callused palm to halt him.

"Mornin'," he drawled when Abel was sliding out of the driver's seat, Texan dialect thick at the early hour. "Coffee?"
 
The look that he had seen on Bishop's face had sent blood rushing to his face and down below-something that had never happened before. Shaking his head vigorously, he sent the weird thoughts fluttering away before he took the initiative drove the Mclaren forward before stopping in the bay when Bishop put up his hand to halt him. He could already smell the garage and it reminded him of times better left alone at the moment. Turning off the engine, he soon opened the door and stepped out of the car. Hearing Bishop's thick drawl sent a shiver over his skin and he idly rubbed his arm before he answered.

"No coffee for me, thanks. Eaten breakfast yet?"

He asked, feeling like he needed to do something with his hands. He kept them in his pockets for the moment to keep himself from fidgeting. His eyes scanned the garage and he found himself picking out things that Tira would get to start fixing the car up. He could almost hear her voice as she tinkered away at the parts she needed to remove.​
 
Frank regarded Abel for a moment; it was a long practiced habit of his, to sometimes fall into an intense silence as he studied a puzzle, whether it be mechanical or personal in nature, never with warning or explanation. More than once, his staff had informed him it was unnerving and a little weird--in a mental patient kind of way, not an eat-the-paste kind of way--but they'd come to accept it over the years.

"No," he said, finally, "I haven't." He paused then, dark eyes and brows pulling together into something vaguely calculating. He wasn't in the habit of inviting clients up to his apartment. That was the point of the sign, after all. But he found the offer on the tip of his tongue, regardless. The refrigerator upstairs was stocked well enough to provide a modest breakfast for the two of them, providing that Abel wasn't finicky about what he put in his mouth.

That thought brought Frank up short, and he could feel his suggestive smirk, pulling just one side of his mouth up. What the Hell.

"You hungry?"
 
The calculating look set him on edge, like he was being viewed like a show piece or something. He wasn't sure what to think of such a look and so kept such comments to himself. Idly, he leaned back against his car and studied the roof of the garage for a moment before looking back at Bishop. He noticed the smirk and found himself curious as to what it might mean. He wasn't sure why the man was smirking. Was it so strange to offer to make breakfast? Abel had made himself a breakfast much smaller than usual, his excitement and sudden sorrow affecting his appetite. He hadn't been able to stomach much and now he was hungry like a hound.

"Yeah. You mind if I make it? I cook a lot, so...uh..."

He felt how awkward this was, or was it just him making thing awkward? He wasn't sure as he felt a subtle blush suffusing his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his head out of nervousness.

"Sorry. I just need something to occupy my hands and cooking helps."

He shrugged casually as he put on a light smile that made his face boyish in appearance.​
 
I just need something to occupy my hands.

This kid was too much. That much, Frank knew. He ran his tongue around the edges of his teeth, the motion causing his jaw to flex and relax again. He cast a glance over at the door leading up to his apartment, reasoning to himself that Abel must have asked around and found out he lived above the garage.

"Follow me," Frank replied, and pivoted on his heel. He led the way to the door, pulling it open and propping it that way only long enough for Abel to get through, at which point he took up the lead again. There was another door at the top of the stairs, also unlocked, and Frank pushed through it and actually held this door until Abel was through it before letting it swing shut.

Then they were standing in his apartment, in what acted as the foyer. Directly to the left, there was the living room, with a large television and comfortable brown leather furniture. To their right was a closed door, behind which was Frank's bedroom. Further down the hallway, there was another door on the right, standing open and leading to the bathroom. There was an adjoining door between the bathroom and the bedroom, also standing open, revealing a wide, rumpled bed and a large chest of drawers. The hallway opened up into the kitchen, which consisted of wooden cabinets and counter tops, stainless steel appliances, and the back entrance to the apartment.

With the singular exception of the bedroom, the entire place was spotless.

Frank didn't bother with a tour, since the place was small and everything was pretty much readily within view, so he walked straight into the kitchen, assuming Abel would know well enough to follow, and started opening up cabinets.

"Here, you've got everything you should need. Eggs and stuff in the fridge."

And though it would save them both some time if Frank returned to his task downstairs and left Abel to it in his house, he pulled a stool out from the center island and plopped his ass down on it. He didn't really like the idea of leaving someone unsupervised in his house, even if he was a cute oddball with a gem of a car, and furthermore, he liked the idea of watching Abel make his breakfast.

He peered down into his nearly empty mug. "Could you make some coffee while you're at it?"
 
Abel was actually surprised to find that Frank lived above the garage and wondered what that earlier look had been about. He was the type of person that needed to do something while someone was busy with his car or something that didn't necessarily involve him. So he didn't get the hint in that look. He followed behind Frank just a few paces back so as not to bump into him in case he stopped short. He followed through the doors and up the stairs before walking past Frank and muttering a thanks as he was let in. Abel looked about the small space and thought of his home, which was big compared to this. It felt so empty in here though while he place felt lived in. If it hadn't been for the bed being rumpled, he would have figured it was a decoration rather than a living space.

Abel followed behind Frank once more as they entered the kitchen. He looked about at the new appliances and such, something his house also lacked. He had old appliances that had been thoroughly broken in and he liked it that way. They had been trained to do what they were made to do. He watched Bishop open up cabinets and noted everything that was in them. Okay, so he could probably whip up a few omelets, some french toast, sausages, and...hash browns. He nodded his head to himself as he thought of what he could make. He moved about the kitchen almost as if he had been in it before and gathered all the ingredients. He raised a brow as Bishop took a seat and ask for coffee.

"Sure thing."

He said with a small smile as he started the percolator for the coffee. Abel soon had the stove running and shallow pans nice and hot. He diced up the ingredients for the omelets before cracking the eggs and dropping them into a bowl before whisking them. He poured the mixture into the pan and listened to it sizzle as he started on hash browns and the mixture for french toast.​
 
When the coffee was finished brewing, Frank got to his feet and went to fill his cup, himself. Rather than return to his seat, however, he hovered closer to Abel than he had been before, sipping from his mug absently as he watched the smooth efficiency of his client's hands.

Over the crackle of the skillet, Frank asked with idle curiosity, "What is it that you do, Abel? When you're not involved in dangerous, criminal recreation, that is." The McLaren F1, after all, was not a cheap car. There were only about a hundred of its kind, and without any other naturally aspirated V12s flooding the market, repairs had to be a bitch. Not that Frank had ever had the pleasure of finding out first hand. Until now, that is. If he was lucky, he'd become the car's chief technician.

Frank came to stand directly behind Abel, peering over his shoulder as he worked.
 
"I actually found my car in a junk yard after it had been torched in an accident. I don't steal parts, Bishop. I was adopted into this way of life when I was orphaned at nine. When I was about...fourteen, I got a letter in the mail saying I was the last known male heir of my grandfather, whom I had never met. He left us a fortune to keep us set for the rest of our lives. But we used the money for charities and car parts and put the rest of it into a bank and never touched it. The rest of the money we earned until I came upon the McLaren and we used some of the money to restore it. Yeah, at one point I was a thief trying to provide for me and my sister...but it's just me now and I've been out of the style a long time. I work at a car parts store that specializes in racing street cars."

It hurt to even think about mentioning Tira, but they had been twins so it was hard not to mention that missing half of himself. Idly, he rubbed the center of his chest before getting back to cooking so he didn't burn anything. He removed the omelets and put them on a plate along with the french toast. The last to be done was the hash browns and sausages. He didn't falter in his work, even as he felt Bishop looming behind him, much like Tira used to do. But instead of feeling sad, he felt himself grinning in the slightest as he rolled the sausages to brown the other side. He flipped the hash browns before he turned his head to glance at Bishop.

"Anything else you would like to know?"

This time, his smirk actually reached his eyes before he chuckled quietly and finished up the last of the meal and set it on the plates he had grabbed. Turning off the stove and setting the hot skillets in the oven so as to cool off without potentially burning one of them, he looked up at Bishop and pretty much shooed him to sit at table while he grabbed the plates. Setting them on the island, he went a got himself a glass of milk to eat with his breakfast.​
 
Frank's eyebrows were making a steady climb toward his hairline as Abel spoke, full of defensiveness and, it seemed, just a touch of anger. Then it melted away just as quickly, replaced by a smile and a chuckle, and Frank didn't see any use in pointing out to Abel that he was not, in fact, suggesting that he stole car parts, but that the 'criminal recreation' to which he referred was the racing, itself. He never once considered that Abel might be a thief. He was too sincere and awkward for that sort of thing.

"No," Frank said, instead. "I think that will do."

He sat as directed without putting up much fuss, and dug into the food without preamble. He ate like a man who didn't actually care for food, but recognized it as a necessity to good health. He didn't fidget over his plate, add unnecessary salt or pepper, or work his food around his plate contemplatively. He started at twelve o'clock and worked clockwise until the food was gone, which took hardly any time at all.

"Thanks," he said, when the food was gone, and got to his feet once more. He fit his dirty plate and fork in the dishwasher and got immediately to work on the warm pans. There was a reason Frank's apartment was spotless at all times; he was simply incapable of leaving a mess in his home.

When the pans were wiped dry and hung back in their original places, and the grease splatters wiped from the stove top and the surrounding counter, Frank finally turned his attention back on Abel. He had invited him up in the hopes of getting to know him a little better--all right, perhaps a lot better--but he'd failed in that regard.

He was getting a little bit irritated with himself.

"That girl at the race last night," he said suddenly. "Rina. She yours?"
 
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