past_amelia_icon.png past_finnegan_icon.png

Where: The Moulin Rouge, Vegas

When: August 21, 1955; late evening

What: Dinner in the past is more challenging than it seems.

When Finnegan wakes up, it has most certainly been more than a nap. She may have promised to wake him in an hour, but she is notoriously bad about promises. Sitting on his side table, there's a slip of paper stuck under the clock that was supposed to wake him hours ago.

You sleep like a rock.


It's a simple message, but at least she didn't just forget about him. In the room, bags have been unpacked, his clothes hanging up in the room's little closet, while hers lay over the back of a chair. Each tried and discarded. Women. Wherever she's gone, it can't be too far, her money and 1955 ID sit on her side table.

Amused, Finn tosses the note back on the table after reading it. Rising from the bed with a creak of mattress springs, he goes to examine the clothing options before selecting something. No multiple costume changes for him.He takes care of the various businesses one does in the morning before dressing, shaking his head at the image of himself in the mirror.

He picks up his money and ID along with her just in case. These pocketed, he grabs the room key and heads for the door.

Down the staircase, the place is just starting to come alive. While it's technically true that the casino is always open, there's no question that the place picks up when the sun goes down. Which it has done. Finn can hear music, not over speakers, but through a few doorways. Typical soundtrack for the fifties, it sounds like.

But Amelia, she slides into view from through a door to the dining area, wearing period dress, but it's a sleek sheath dress instead of the more iconic poofy skirt. And it's red. It makes her stand out, which is probably the opposite of the point here, but with no supervisor around, the little details tend to slip. She seems to be heading toward the stairs, but isn't really looking in that direction.

The agent watches his partner for a moment, appreciating the change in her appearance and the way she stands out against the more pastel colors of the other "housewives" on vacation. His eyes sweep the area for any sign of the man they're supposed to be looking out for, but it's rather like the proverbial needle in a haystack, and hoping to run into him in the lobby of their own hotel on the first run out is fairly slim, right?

He moves toward Amelia, trying to take advantage of the fact she's not looking his way. When he's a bit closer, Finn whistles low. "Looking foxy, little lady. Your husband know you're out here all by your li'l lonesome?" he murmurs in that exaggerated version of his own already pronounced drawl.

An eyebrow is already raised up by the time Amelia turns around to face him, and while she looks like she might have something snarky to say, at first, when she sees that it's him, her expression relaxes. "He doesn't, but he's big and burly and likes to punch things," she says, her fingers reaching over to gently pick up his tie, "So I'd watch your step."

But there's a smile a moment later, more than a smile, even. A grin. "Here I thought I was going to have to find a prince to come kiss you to get you up. Hungry? They're starting dinner," she says with a point back toward the room she came from. "Or we could go combing the streets. I wore my walking shoes." Which must be a lie, since she's in heels.

"Was I that pretty while I was sleeping?" Finnegan says with a grin, and turns to look to the dining room, before shrugging. "Could eat, could work. Nice heels. I'm not carrying you if you get blisters though. Can you run in those things? Also I like your hair that color, did I mention that? Though it looks good the color of my Slushees, too."

Perhaps it's the mention of his Slushee that does it; his stomach growls, and decisions are made. "Let's eat. They only serve dinner at specific times, instead of 24-7 buffets, huh?"

"Oh yes. Complete with angelic Disney glow and dwarves." Amelia glances down at her shoes before a hand reaches up to touch her hair. She eventually looks back to him, her brow furrowing for just a second. "Of course I can run in them," she opts to say, although with a blink. "And thanks."

Her hand drops and she takes his sleeve between two fingers to drag him off toward the food. "Yeah, weird, right? And it's not even a buffet. It's got waiters and everything. But the bar is open all the time. Nice, huh?" Keeping the people drunk and happy.

"Not even a buffet… so they'd think it's weird if I ask for lobster tail, waffles, and nachos all at the same time? And they don't have Mountain Dew, do they? What the hell did people eat back then?" Hopefully he's kidding, but she's seen the inside of his refrigerator so it's very possible he's not.

As they get closer to the dining room and other people, he clears his throat. "All right. No more talk of anything from the future. Which is going to make for a very awkward dinner, I think. I suppose we could fill the silence with coming up with possible children names. Make it a game. Whoever laughs first buys dinner." With the Company money, of course.

"They might. Although, who knows, maybe we're rich and eccentric." Amelia looks over at him at the question, smirking just a little. "I'm not sure you know what people eat now, let alone then." Now and then being terrible relative terms. But it's also possible she's not sure herself. They're about to find out, in any case. "Bad kid names? You are so going down, Finnegan," she says with a laugh.

But she doesn't comment as they're shown to a table and handed menus. No Mountain Dew on them, sadly. No future talk really is a challenge. But out of the blue, while she should be deciding on what to eat, she lowers her menu to look over at him. "Fifi. Fifi Finnegan. You know, if it's a girl."

The menu is opened and scanned. He shakes his head solemnly. "If the people at the Luxor didn't want me to eat nachos, waffles and lobster all at the same time, why is it all on the same buffet table? It's perfectly acceptable." Vegas food has its own standards, really. "Plus they have those tiny little jam bottles and stuff you can pocket. I haven't bought any condiments since moving to this place." It's hard to tell if he's serious, as he reads the menu or pretends to.

"Fifi's a good name. I think if it's a boy it should be Huckleberry."

The way Amelia looks over the table at him, she seems to think he's serious. "My god man, you use the hotel ketchup?" You'd think she only used gourmet ketchup, if her tone was anything to judge by. The name, though, gets a smirk and she's silent for a moment before she actually replies. "I think that would be a better middle name. What about Skippy?"

The waiter happens by just then, and Amelia looks up to him before letting out a sigh and pushing her menu his way. "You order for me, won't you, lovey?"

"Do you have enchiladas?" Finnegan asks, before waving it away — for a moment he looks a bit mischievous, but then he asks for the waiter's recommendations and orders accordingly, filet mignon with au gratin potatoes, soup and salad and creme brulee for dessert. At the end, he does make sure to add, "And ketchup." Hopefully the waiter doesn't tell the chef that the Southern tourists are going to eat his filet mignon with ketchup.

Back to the game, he shakes his head. "Skippy reminds me of that kid on that show with you know. Michael J. Fox. Of all people. Fitting." His voice is low as he talks of television shows that don't exist. "We could have a slew of 'gans. Corrigan, Dougan, Logan, Megan, Reagan." He reaches for a water glass after a bus boy drops it off. "Huckleberry's about as good a middle name as Thaddeus."

The waiter lifts his eyebrows, but jots down what Finn eventually orders, even the ketchup. If the kitchen explodes, they'll know why. Amelia just smiles until the man walks off, and then turns to Finn. Again.

"Mulligan, Hooligan, Shenanigan, Sheboygan…" She grins across the table at him, leaning in as if imparting a secret, "Or just all of them, in a long line." She sits back up when he mentions his own middle name, though. "It's where parents shove all the embarrassing names, right in the middle." Including Thaddeus, apparently.

"Shenanigan and Hooligan, they can be the twins," Finn says with a grin. "Every Finnegan's been at least nine pounds at birth. You sure you're ready for motherhood, dainty thing that you are?" The glass of water is sipped from again.

"And what's your middle name? See if I can guess. Give me an initial." Apparently the game of the worst name for a pretend child is at a draw.

"Twins, too, huh? Lucky me." Amelia eyes him a little as he goes on, narrowed gaze taking in his grinning commentary. "That's what surrogacy is for, so I can keep my slim figure," she says with a brush down her dress. Lacking a menu to hide behind when the question of her own middle name comes up, she glances over at the bar as if willing a drink to come her way.

Of course, being a telepath, she actually can will it, and Finn can see the bartender making his way over to their table with some red drink in hand. "It starts with an E. Which is an unfair letter and you don't win anything if you guess. It's like having an X or something." And when the bartender sets her drink down, she smiles up at him before he turns to head back to his actual job.

The drink is eyed and Finn raises a brow. "This is the cosmo you're looking for?" he asks lightly, with a shake of his head. "E. Let's see. Eleanor, Evangeline, Esmerelda, Esther, Emma, Emily, Emma-Rose, Emerald…" he drones out, watching her for any tells if he hits the right one. "There's more E names than I'd have thought, really, that's just my first pass."

He picks up his water and takes a sip, before wrinkling his nose slightly. Given that he always has sugary drinks, it's probably killing him to drink tap water.

"Cosmos are more pink, Finny. This is a Zombie." Which she takes a drink of before she passes it his way. "It's good." Of course, she probably just made the bartender make it the way she likes. But whatever!

"Emma Rose? Jesus." Taking the Lord's name is not exactly in character, but she can't help herself. But no tells that he might be on the right track, not on this pass. "I guess there are. I never really thought about it." She doesn't offer to change her ruling on the prize, though.

"Don't get much call for them at my bar," says the schooled bartender-agent with a shrug. "I got a cheat sheet for them fancy drinks." The accent grows thicker as he plays dumb, one shoulder raising. "None of those, hm?"

Another sip of water is taken and pushed away until he gets the beer he ordered with his dinner. "Erin. Eileen. Edith. Edna. Effie. Elephantina." He might be making that last one up.

"Your bar likes the earth tone drinks, huh? Beer. Tequila. Long Island." Amelia teases, her lips curving into a crooked smile. She sips at her drink as he tries guessing again, only to choke just a little on that last one. She manages to swallow without too much of a scene, but the coughing after gets a few looks their way. Cute, a little slip of a thing trying the hard liquors~

"You are just begging for an endless projection of gay porn," she says with a tap to her temple. At least she remembers to whisper. "But no, ready to give up yet?"

His brow furrows with worry at her threat, eyes widening just a touch with that Southern innocence that never quite gets wiped away. "I don't give up that easy. Got more stayin' power than that, Ma'am."

He reaches for the drink to take a sip of her zombie, nodding with satisfaction. Sugar. "Elizabeth, Elise, Elouise, Ellllllll…" that gets drawn out as he tries to think of others in the same vein, "-vira?"

"You're all talk," Amelia says to his purported stamina. And when he takes her drink, she just laughs briefly. Brief, because there's a blink of surprise right around Elouise, like she wasn't expecting it to pop out of his mouth. But she doesn't confirm it verbally, she just watches him. Maybe she hopes he'll just keep going.

"Rewind there a moment," he says, speaking of things that didn't exist in 1955. "Elllllouise. Amelia Elouise — charming and a bit old fashioned. How very unlike you." Finn smirks though to soften the teasing comment. "Your mama and my mama must've been old sorority sisters or something, with their penchant for trisyllable names, hmm?" Trisyllable — he may not be as dim as he looks.

"It'll be 20 years before anyone knows what rewind means, Finn." It's just a friendly reminder, is all. "My god, it's all in black and white still, isn't it?" The horror. But she smiles a little more subdued at those last words, just for a moment before her smirk returns. "Do they have sororities for total nerds who have a favorite number of syllables?"

Before he can answer, the food arrives, complete with the beer for Finnegan. And the ketchup. If the chef heard, he's being a good sport.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License