It's a rotten day in January, the kind of day when the sun beats down on an icy, dead world covered in off-white, grime-coated snowflakes, but does not a thing to warm it up. The kind of day where you can see your breath and hear the brittle low of the temperature in the air outside, but it looks like a suburban hellscape, not a winter wonderland. The kind of day that befalls you halfway in to a Colorado winter and leaves you feeling destitute, abandoned by the warmth of the sun that you have, to be frank, forgotten the feeling of since the last time you had the privilege- it must have been August or September.
Grace halfheartedly works on emptying a box of overstock from the back room that is due to be addressed; wondering if it's possible for her to drag the task out so far that it won't have to be completed before it's time for her to go home and still get away with it. Misleading sunshine blasts through the window, directly into her eyes. She should close the blinds, but she just doesn't feel like it. And besides, there's no one in the store to complain to her about it.
Or, there wasn't.
But the sliding doors shudder open and she looks up from her mind numbing tasks to offer her best definitely sound of mind greeting, and is pleasantly surprised to see Chris entering the store. She's seen him a few times in the last month, popping in to grab a small whiskey bottle and some kind of beer or maybe even a case of iced coffee, which was a fully new addition to his purchasing habits, in her store anyway. He always came in to get something for the weekend, but the implications no longer suggested that it was just for him. The visits took on a different tone because of that. Today, just like other days, has a similar vibe- something is different about it, even more different from the dedicated but self-deprecating man she had encountered in her checkout line around Christmas. And even then, that state had seemed like a massive improvement.
He gives her a small smile and a nod, but she watches as he stops just inside the door and slowly looks to either side. Frowning, he takes a step backwards, and then another, disappearing from her line of sight into the lobby between the two sets of sliding doors. He's gone for a long moment, and Grace finds herself standing still, waiting. What was that about? Was it something she said? Then-
-he re-enters her vision, but this time much slower, and held very carefully to one side of him is another man. Once again, Grace doesn't recognize him, but she immediately has a difficult time placing the two of them together in her mind. The stranger is wearing a suit that to Grace's inexperienced eye, appears to cost more than her life is worth. It is tailored to fit him exactly; certainly more impressive than the occasional and mildly frumpy suits she sees on men after Sunday services. There is a significant looking bandage on his forehead, and he doesn't seem to be enjoying his experience in the store, to say the least.
"Mr. Larabee-"
"Chris," comes the interjected correction from the owner of the name. His new friend does not acknowledge this.
"-I am a fully grown, independent adult, and while I recognize that perhaps-"
"Never said you weren't," Chris affirms, but again is ignored.
"-your past family experience leads you to conclude that this is what I would appreciate most in this situation-"
"Ezra."
"-it most certainly is not."
Grace steps back into the edge of her isle, not wanting to be the creepy store employee who outwardly listens in on her customers. Of course, she is just that, only she has the smallest amount of dignity that leads her to hide it. So, she's a gossip and she's a liar, she thinks dryly. What fantastic news. Despite this conclusion, she edges forward, just enough that she can sort of see what's happening through a display of laundry soap.
"Ezra," Chris repeats, addressing this friend by name, "this's got nothing to do with what you appreciate and a hell of a lot more to do with whether or not Nathan kills me because you fall down and make that hole on your head bigger. Especially if you do it because you're being a stubborn son of a bitch." Chris adjusts his grip on the man- up until this point, he has walked directly beside him with a hand on each of his arms, which are at Ezra's sides, and they have moved very slowly across the threshold. Now, he grips the nearest elbow with both hands, forcing the suit-wearing man to meet his eyes. "Can you keep your balance now?"
"I take great umbrage to the idea-"
"Answer the question."
"Of course I can."
Chris merely raises an eyebrow. Ezra sighs.
"I hope so. Let us just... complete our mission here and then return. I would like very much to go to bed."
They have begun the slow-motion trek across the store, Chris patiently maintaining a steadying hold on Ezra and the former looking very concentrated in his efforts to maintain the pace they are moving at. Chris nods in response to Ezra's words. "I can imagine. Hope you don't mind a little dog hair, though," the last with a chuckle at a picture only in his mind.
They are rounding the corner toward the medicines in the back, but Grace can still just see their faces. Ezra looks confused. "I haven't got a dog," he says distantly.
"No," Chris says patiently. "But I do."
Grace is left to entertain herself once they move down the alcohol isle, towards the sections of over-the-counter medication. It's an interesting juxtaposition to how she is used to seeing her regular customer- with his silently demanded bubble of personal space and quietly self-deprecating attitude caught up in the cloud around his head. Seeing him in charge of someone else, especially someone he seems to care about, puts him in an entirely different light.
They're back there for a surprisingly long time, and Grace has returned to the Herculean task of trying not to do any work, when she comes across a package of paper goods in the bottom of the box. Strange, since everything else in the box went with the hair care products. Soaking in the chance for minor variety, she takes the package with her to its home on the other side of the store from her post, and is surprised to nearly bump into Chris and his friend when she rounds the corner from the paper goods isle.
They are standing in the alcohol section, which is just a few feet from the paper towels, and Chris looks very impatient. Ezra seems very determined, in contrast, studying the wine selection they offered with great interest.
"Hurry up," Chris prods, in a huff.
"It is a shame that something of a higher caliber is not available to us here. And to think you make all of your alcohol purchases at this establishment." She steps back out of sight, trying not seem as though she's following them through the store, but she can still hear Ezra lamenting the wine selection.
"It's a drugstore, not the Taj Mahal. Pick something."
"You know that the Taj Mahal does not serve alcoholic beverages."
"Ezra."
"Fine! Fine." There's another moment of silence before she hears the clink of metal against glass, and she glances around the corner to see Ezra choosing a bottle of wine, the ring on that hand colliding with the bottle. Chris immediately alleviates him of the responsibility, apparently not trusting his grip on the fragile product.
"Okay, let's go," Chris sighs, gesturing toward the cash register in a mixture of tired frustration and evident concern.
Grace makes a hasty retreat to the register, waiting in perfect patience for them to approach with their items. Eventually, she sees them coming, moving slowly. Chris is no longer holding onto Ezra, who is wearing a different expression than she had observed earlier. If it wasn't for the bandage and the slower speed, as well as what she had seen earlier, she wouldn't know he was suffering from any kind of head injury at all. They place their products on the counter, and Grace falls into her routine, ringing up the order and asking all the correct questions at the correct times.
An anti-nausea medication, the wine, and something for migraine headaches. "You know you can't drink that until we're sure you don't have a concussion," Chris comments.
Ezra merely rolls his eyes. "I do not have any such thing, and I'm not a child. You don't have to supervise me. I can drink whatever I like."
Chris scowls at him. "You brave enough to say that to Nathan?" He is met with utter silence, and he smirks a bit, nodding. "That's what I thought."
Grace places the medications into one plastic bag, and the wine into a paper bag with handles, sliding them towards Chris on the counter and reading out their totals. Ezra contributes the money for his wine, and tries to pay for all of it, but Chris threatens to shoot him, so he backs down and lets the other split the bill, looking only mildly chagrined.
As she gathers and counts the money, entering it into the register and placing it in the drawer, she watches out of the corner of her eye as Ezra discreetly grips the edge of the counter top with white knuckles. Chris seems to be noticing this too, subtly raising a hand near the vicinity of the middle of his back, in case of impending collapse. "If you were a grown man you'd stay in the hospital like you're supposed to, you damn fool."
"I fail to see how such an action would do anything to mark my independence," Ezra murmurs, watching with somewhat glazed eyes as Grace hands Chris his change.
"Never mind," Chris sighs in resignation. "C'mon. We're gonna go to the ranch and then you'll be Nathan's problem.... and mine too, I guess." He grips the man's elbow on the side across from Grace, where it's harder for her to see, and grabs the handles of the bags with his free hand.
"Have a great night," Grace wishes them in a somewhat questioning tone- it doesn't sound like that's possible, but she can only say so much to strangers that she doesn't have any business knowing as much about as she does. Chris gives her a somewhat sarcastic smile and a sure thing expression, turning away to lead his concussed charge out of the store.
It seems that this entire interaction is a way for the man in black to focus on something other than himself and have something to care about. He seems surprisingly suited to the roll, even though it also includes his building frustration. Grace thinks back to earlier, when his friend had referenced his past family experience and what it might lead Chris to "believe" about how he wants to be treated- and thinks about the regulars who joked about how Chris had fallen off the face of their worlds after the unspoken accident. Maybe this kind of thing is good for him.
Then, she glances up just in time to see Ezra giving her a nod of departure, but just before he turns completely away to follow Chris out the door, he flashes her a wink and a tiny little half smirk, just as Chris growls a stern "Hurry up," and he backs away to follow his friend outside.
Maybe some of his friends know just as much about that as she likes to think she does.