Chapter Text
On the surface, nothing seems to change. The familiar confines of Miss Retro's certainly doesn't bear any obvious shifting. The sound of rain pattering against peeling window panes doesn't abate, still a strong, driving beat nearly lost beneath the continued opening strains of the obscure pop classic blasting tinny from the juke. The sound of food cooking on the griddle doesn't falter, and the few regulars sitting at the tables and booths and counter-tops after the lunch rush don't notice anything amiss. (Feel, at most, the barest flash of something halfway between deja-vu and anticipation --- a shivering, echoey sort of unease, like the moments after nails run down a chalkboard, when one's revulsion fails to stop the pervasive memory from repeating --- and then brush it away.)
And yet something does change, all the same.
Perhaps someone could have noticed, if they were exceedingly --- even preternaturally --- perceptive. Could have seen the way the bell at the entrance shines brighter than it had mere moments before, some of the tarnish disappearing at the same time as the chain finds itself silver no longer: replaced instead by the original gold links that had been snapped years before. Could have noticed the way the pattering rain is accompanied now by sunlight bright enough to feel contradictory despite the heavy cloud cover that had taken over the sky mere moments before. Could have caught the oddly bright light of that sun, glinting viscerally, unusually white off the aged appliances of the diner's kitchen. Could have remembered that the song still playing on the jukebox is one that doesn't technically exist, one that slips from the listener's head like water through a mesh.
Yes, perhaps someone could have noticed, and yet the fact remains that no one did. The regulars continue eating and the food continues cooking and the bell at the door continues to ring merrily whenever the door opens as it just has.
Miss Holloway smiles as she turns, though she could not tell you why she did. She does not know the man walking through the door, though there is an element of familiarity to how he holds himself. To the way he shakes the water droplets off his canvas coat. To way his hair falls messily across his forehead as he looks up, and to the smile he sends her way after. (He reminds her of someone, she thinks, though she cannot for the life of her think of whom.)
"Welcome to Miss Retro's," she says, as she always does to newcomers (though that word somehow feels wrong, here, and she has to fight not to stumble over her script). "What can I get ya?"
He moves quickly as he walks to the counter, as he slides onto one of the stools. (She almost warns him not to sit on that particular stool --- tells him that there's a bolt missing on it that she's been meaning to fix but not gotten around to yet, one that sets the stool all wobbly and, if you don't approach it just so, tends to buck customers right off --- but he's on it before she can say anything and, miraculously, doesn't fall. He's got one foot braced under the faulty bar to wedge it upright all natural-like, like he's done it a hundred times before, and yet she's never seen him before in her life. He doesn't seem to have noticed that he's done it, and she tries not to notice her own confusion.) "I’ve heard you make a fine cup o’ coffee and a mean plate of hotcakes," he says, and the words ring heavy into the air. She knows them somehow --- knows the feel of them, the sound of him saying them, almost like he's said them to her before --- but she also knows she can't have. "Don’t suppose the griddle’s up ‘n’ running?”
Miss Holloway smiles despite her unease, gesturing out at the largely-empty diner with its three, already-served regulars sitting, quiet, in their usual seats. (Ignores the way she hadn't intended to make the gesture, the way it almost seemed to happen without her say-so, the way it felt like she'd done all this before.) “What, with this many folks clambering for service?" (The words feel almost rehearsed even though they can't be, a re-run script spooling itself out for the very first time.) "I suppose I can fit you in.”
"Much obliged." He reaches up to his forehead, tips an imaginary hat her way. (Looks the barest bit confused as he does.)
She looks away, looks down, ready to scribble his order on her notepad. Looks up again when she realises that she isn't holding it --- has her pot of coffee in hand instead, ready to pour the coffee he's only just ordered --- and tries not to seem as rattled as she feels. (Most of her customers order her coffee. She's good at making it --- people know she's good at making it --- people talk about how good she is at making it. She probably just assumed, that's all: assumed that a newcomer would want to try it off others' recommendation, presumed he'd want one because of the bags under his eyes, something.)
The pot rattles against the side of the cup as she pours it. She has to brace one hand with the other to stop it from spilling.
He notices. (Somehow, she isn't surprised that he notices.) "You alright?"
"Of course!" Her voice shakes as much as her hands, and she knows without knowing that he's noticed that too. "Doin' just fine."
She sees his expression just before she turns away to start cooking --- sees the smile there: gentle and slightly sad and somehow distantly familiar --- and turns away with it burned into her memory. ("Familiar" can't sum up how well she knows it --- the way she could draw the shape of it with her eyes closed, down to the scar on his upper lip and its slight tilt of a right corner --- the way it cuts to the core of her and nestles in a hollow, empty part of her that she's never been able to name. The way this smile, with all its enigmatic melancholy, feels more familiar than the unburdened one he'd given at the door. She wonders what's wrong with her, that she recognises his sadness more than she knows his kindness.)
"You new in town?" She's asked this before, she knows it. Tries to tell herself that this familiarity --- distant and soft-edged and hazy --- is from the fact that she asks it to everyone she doesn't recognise. Tells herself that's the source of the deja-vu as she pours the batter, too. (Ignores the fact that she doesn't remember having any out-of-towners for years, that she's never felt this way before. That what she remembers is him, not his surroundings, despite the fact that he's a stranger.) "Picked one heck of a day to travel.”
"Oh, uh, no, ma'am." He shakes his head. "Been workin' in town for a while now. Just never..." He falters. Frowns. Finishes his sentence anyway, though it doesn't feel right to her somehow. Doesn't seem to feel right for him either. "Never got around to comin' in, I guess." She has to look away when he shrugs, shoulders rolling with the motion like he's shrugging something off, lest she have to admit to herself that she finds an elusive sort of kinship in it. "Figured it was 'bout time to visit the famous Miss Retro," he says instead, half-laughing as he does, "and her award-winning cooking.”
She almost drops the spatula at the nickname. (She's had many people call her that over the years. Heard it in reviews, in casual conversation, in jest. Heard it in just about every context. Never heard it like this --- like an echo of times gone by --- like the quiet, poignant grief of the piano riff still playing over the jukebox.) "Miss Holloway," she says instead. "My name," she clarifies. "Darlene," she finishes. (She's not sure why she says it. No one knows her first name, and she's never been particularly interested in changing that fact. Perhaps she says it just to prove she can, even though she equally can't fathom why she ever couldn't.)
He looks slightly stricken when she says it, face open and almost shattered in a way she didn't expect. In a way he didn't seem to expect. "Darlene," he says, and the name is soft in his voice, breathed-out on a sigh, like he's scared it'll vanish if he says it too loudly. His voice cracks lightly around it. "A lovely name." He shakes his head, then, like he's trying to refocus. Like he's trying to shake something off. "Douglas. But most folks call me Duke."
She doesn't like the nickname, even though it feels more right, somehow, than the alternative. She doesn't even try to say it --- ignores the way even considering making the attempt leaves her throat constricting around the syllable, the way her throat closes up with something that feels like grief as much as it does fear --- and just stores it away in the still-empty part of her that hasn't gotten any more full. Focuses on the other one instead. "Good to meet you, Douglas." (The name still feels wrong. Feels kinda like coming home, too. Scares her.)
The food is done and she plates it, glad that her hands don't shake too badly when she does. Sets it down in front of him with a smile that feels sad even though she can't see it, can't say why. "There ya go."
"Thanks, Darlene." It sounds wrong in his mouth, and she's kinda frightened by it. Kinda likes it, too. "Thank you kindly."
Normally, this is where she'd turn and leave him to it. Were he any other customer, she'd be disappearing to the pantry --- refilling whatever supplies she's used and getting ready for the next rush --- and not coming back until either she finishes with her stock or the bell over the door rings. Were he any other customer, her heart wouldn't be beating harshly in her chest, too fast and too scared, and her breath wouldn't feel caught between her lungs and the lump in her throat.
But she doesn't. Can't, and isn't sure why. He's a mystery she doesn't understand, but one she equally wants to solve. He's a stranger and she knows him, and he'll never fill whatever piece of her is missing but he's the closest she'll ever get, and she has never seen him before but she knows the shape of loving him.
So she stays. Talks.
Smiles.