Hello Nurse!


Bette_icon.gif John_icon.gif

Summary: A lot of flirting and bad pick up lines, despite the effort to avoid such things.

Date It Happened: February 22nd, 2002

Log Title Hello Nurse!

Santa Monica Pier

With a Big Gulp of soda that's incredibly bad for you, and his dog's leash in the other, John strolls along the pier. His stride is aimless as he people watches, even shifting his gaze towards the ocean. The man's still wearing his black S.W.A.T. shirt and pants from work. His black lab Dixie is taking advantage of the slack in her leash by trotting ahead. Fortunately, she's a well mannered dog so isn't going wild and nipping at strangers.

One off the many people on the pier today, Elizabeta strolls along lost in her own world, which involves a cell phone plastered to her ear. Her lovely surroundings are currently ignored. A cream-coloured poncho rests over the woman's shoulders, hanging down with tasselled edges, bronze shirt and black pants underneath. Large, white-framed sunglasses block out the gradually setting sun. "No, I'm not going! Are you kidding. I wouldn't be caught dea— I would not! I'm serious!" she yammers on, the argument half-joking and half-serious. Long, fast strides carry her toward the S.W.A.T. man and his dog — so long and fast that she whisks right by.

John doesn't normally pay too much attention to women. Oh he pays attention, but he has a dangerous job with insane hours. Yet when the stunning redhead passes by? His steps slow and he looks over his shoulder at her. They don't grow 'em like that back in Georgia, that's for sure. "Dixie, at ease," he calls to the dog and she returns to his side, plopping her butt down on the walkway next to him.

Bette pays attention to men, but she's too involved with her phone conversation to pay attention to— well, anything. "That was one time and I— oh come on!" She gestures with one hand even though the person on the other end can't see her, and eventually her steps slow. "Fine. Fine. But I'm only going for publicity, and if you leave me alone with those pompous losers I'm going to— shut UP— " Et cetera et cetera. Laughing with a bright smile, she turns to lean ahead against a rail toward the setting sun and ocean.

For some reason, John finds himself more fascinated and amused by the woman than he should be. Dixie pants, wagging her tail, thumping it loudly against the boardwalk. John looks down at the dog, then across at Bette, inspiration hitting. He drops down to kneel next to his lab, unclipping her leash. "Dixie, recon," he says quietly to the dog, gesturing just enough in Bette's direction for the dog to be instructed.

Tail wagging, Dixie gets up and trots over to Bette and barks playfully up at the woman.

"Mm-hmm," the redhead says by way of goodbye to her apparent friend on the phone, finally pulling the device away from her ear to end the call with the push of a button. As she's twisting about to grab onto the designer purse that's slung over her shoulder, the type that looks like it could fit a kitchen sink in it, she nearly jumps at the dog's bark. An arched eyebrow arches even higher down at the critter. "Well, hello there," she says, friendly, but with an underlying caution. Big dog… thing. Sliding the phone away at last, she glances around to try to determine where Dixie came from. Inevitably, her eyes land on John, behind the dark lenses of her fashionista sunglasses. They kind of match, he and the dog. Both muscled and in black, see. Owners look like their dogs. She looks down at Dixie, addressing her, rather than John. "Yours?"

Dixie noses at the designer purse, hey, she's a lady with taste too! That and the purse probably has flavor. The dog's tail wags frantically and she barks again as if answering Bette. Smirking in a playful manner, John approaches, spreading his arms in a helpless gesture. "She's got a mind of her own, always wriggling out of her leash. Tried to tell her that's a bad idea, but she just doesn't listen." Taking a drink of his soda, he drops down to one knee, putting the leash back onto Dixie's collar. Sitting like a lady, Dixie just grins up at people, as if to say 'look at me, I done good!'

The woman hitches her purse over her shoulder a bit tighter, nudging it more behind her with an elbow. No touching the accessories, canine. She smiles, though, at the dog's owner more than the dog, by this point. "… Right," she says with a twist of a smirk, because how does a dog wriggle out of its leash? Don't they have metal clasps? Bette glances from John to Dixie and back up again, raising one brow again. "She's cute." For a dog. The guy, though… "You know, they say dogs resemble their owners."

"Don't listen to her Dixie, everyone knows you're the prettier one," John says to the dog, scritching her behind the ears before he rises. "Although I'm not sure if that statement's meant to be flattering or not," he says, smiling in good humor. Even if he doesn't use his dog like this, well, ever, they're great for starting conversations if you aren't sure how. He jiggles his cup around, letting the ice rattle before chucking it into a nearby trash bin. This also gives him something to do as he thinks of something to say that won't make an ass out of him, or won't be some cheesy pick up line.

Bette laughs, giving John a momentarily silly look, brows raised — as if to say 'good one' — and turns to face the ocean once more. Leaning into the rail with both hands, she turns her head to look at the man, pushing a strand of red hair behind her ear. "Are you really SWAT or is that one of those t-shirts you can buy at the mall for ten bucks?"

Saved! From making a horrid pickup line. At least for now. John grins and answers with a question of his own, "Wanna see my badge?" Whups, too late. About the bad lines that is. "LAPD SWAT, the real thing. Got a crisis situation you need taken care of?" Insert your own bad joke here.

Oh God. Bette can't help but roll her eyes extravagantly, although it's followed by a little laugh. "Aha." She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her hair again - the light breeze is hitting her just so off the water. "Do you always use a bunch of capital letters and a shiny badge to impress the ladies?"

"That was bad, wasn't it? It really was, and I was trying so hard not to go there," John says, glancing down at the ground before looking back up at Bette. "Not always. Usually my smile and charm wins 'em over first," he drawls in his native accent. Definitely not from around these parts. Dixie's leash is looped around one hand as he extends the other to shake, "Lieutenant John Talbot."

"Really." Bette gives the non-native another one of those sharp eyebrow lifts of hers before her red-painted lips curve up into a one-sided smile. She extends a hand, slim arm interrupting the peace of the tassels of her poncho, and shakes John's. Her handshake is warm, firm. "Dr. Elizabeta Montagne. MD, since it's only fair that you get my letters too. So Lieutenant, huh?"

"Doctor, wow? Not just those honorary ones either, you got an actual MD after your name." John's brows lift, he's honestly surprised. He pegged Bette for a do-nothing socialite. "What's your speciality?" His own handshake is warm, his hand rough from his line of work. If he wanted to brag, he'd tell the woman he's also a retired Army Captain, but he tends to keep things humble. "Hey, I'm not just some pretty face, Doctor." Using the phrase 'Hello Nurse' comes to mind about Bette, but she didn't go to medical school just to be called nurse.

The doctor pegs John with a somewhat critical look after noting his surprise. Her hand, when it's let go, disappears under her poncho for the time being with a rattle of metal bracelets. "Well neither am I," Bette counters with a faint grin. "I'm a neurosurgeon at the Good Samaritan." Hardly a nurse or do-nothing socialite.

John is even more impressed hearing that. "Not everyday I get to meet a neurosurgeon. Get to meet a lot of types, but gotta say this is a first. Met some doctors and battlefield medical, but none anywhere as pretty as you." He doesn't seem embarrassed about letting his mouth run off there, just stating the obvious. "I gotta confess, used Dixie here just to say hello to you." Dixie doesn't seem to mind, seeing as she's biting at her hind end at the moment.

Bette looks flattered, a hint of coyness slinking around her eyes for a moment, but there's no blushing for this woman. "Consider yourself lucky, Lieutenant," she says, "The fewer neurosurgeons you meet the better. Otherwise, you probably have something wrong with your brain. Can't say I've ever met a SWAT…" What's the correct term, here? She's no expert. "…guy…" It'll do. "Before either."

John laughs, shifting Dixie's leash from one hand to the other, "Good reasoning, that. Gotta say all my regulation physicals have come up perfect." Model of health and fitness this one is. "And it's probably good you haven't met too many of us. Probably treated some a time or two after a hostile situation. Kind of a shame they probably had to be under medication with you working on 'em." He continues grinning, however Bette wants to call it seems fine by him. "So I guess now, I should ask if you wanna go grab a drink with me?"

"I guess it is," Bette agrees casually, smirk still in place, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "And for the record, I always see my patients before and after surgery," she points out. "I hope you're not my first— " Pause. "SWAT… guy. At least not until after that drink." Flirt flirt flirt.

John chuckles and offers up his arm to Bette. Southern gentleman, born and bred. "Well now, that's good to hear. There's a great little bar just down the boardwalk. Outdoors, they don't mind dogs there. I'd hate to leave you waiting if I had to take Dixie on home."

"Well, you're in luck. I happen to have a few rare hours before I have to be at the hospital." Bette eyes the offered arm like a foreign beast, at first — such shows of gentlemanliness are alien in her worlds of Los Angeles and New York — but takes it, eventually, with a somewhat impressed smile. "A Southern gentleman. …with a dog named Dixie. Wow, that's… uh. Charming."

"I was gonna use the term cliche'd, but that works too. I'll take charming." John says, flashing a grin at Bette. "When I retired from the Army a couple years back, I was stationed near here. Decided to stick around California instead of going back to Georgia."

Bette gives John a skeptical look when he says 'Army' - maybe that should be a warning sign to him, danger danger — but she passes on by it, strolling alongside him and Dixie. "Georgia," she repeats, nodding. "Never been." Like it's any surprise. "I'm from here. Well, sort of. Near here. Little place called San Medea. Just got back from NYC, though. You like it here?"

"I'm enjoying it just fine. Haven't given me cause to pack up and run yet. Gotta say though, the scenery is somethin' else," John turns his head to look at Bette as he says the last bit. "Georgia's nice though. Lots to see and do, it's a little slower paced than here or New York, even in Atlanta. Been to New York a time or two. Didn't get to see much. Most of the time I was just passing through cities to get from point A to point B."

… Smirk. "I miss parts of New York," Bette says, falling easily into small-talk, a glint lingering in her eye after John's flattery. "But nothing beats LA. Especially in the winter. I hate the cold. I hear Georgia's hot." Pause. "Obviously it's hot, it's in the South. Uhm," she waves a hand. "Ignore me."

John laughs, "M'am, I don't think I could ignore you, even as you ask me to." He doesn't mean to be coming across as laying it on thick. He's actually surprising himself as he runs off at the mouth. "Cold ain't so bad. It can be downright cozy if you want it to be. I'm still a little thrown at the difference between the beaches here and the ones I've been to on the Georgia coast." It kinda makes him wish he had the family boat here, but that's something to keep to himself.

"You don't have to call me ma'am-Bette is good," the redhead insists, first of all. She slows down her typical fast pace to walk at a more casual pace along the boardwalk, glancing around now and then to try to catch sight of wherever it is they're headed. "Do all southern gentlemen use this much flattery?"

"Nah, some of 'em are just downright redneck. I guess I was just raise right by my mama." John states, and it helps that his background was a little more upper crust than he presents himself. Grinning, he looks aside at Bette, "I normally don't run off like this, but I gotta say, you disarmed me. Lemme know if it gets a bit much, Bette."

"I'm not complaining," Bette says matter-of-factly. Arching her brows high, she looks over at John as she strolls, her look one of curious, and critical, examination. "I'm just trying to figure out if you're for real. This city, you know— fine-tunes a girl's paranoia. Full of people pretending to be something they're not."

John is pretending to be something he's not, but in a way he isn't. The man has his own secrets, but it's not in the way he behaves. "Oh good. Cause I'd hate to not tell a beautiful woman that she shines." His pace slows down as they approach the bar and he looks over Bette's face, "I can see how that could happen. LA's kinda fake and plastic in quite a few ways. Not that I travel in those circles." The glitz, the glamor, the celebs. He's had to bust up a few parties though, that's as close as he's gotten. There's also the more gritty and messy underbelly of the city that so many aren't aware of. "I like to think I'm pretty real. At least I haven't had no plastic surgery, so I'm all natural."

"Plastics is a big business!" But not this doctor's. "Well, then." She glances over at the boardwalk bar, now that they've slowed down. "This must be your dog-friendly bar." She holds her head up a little higher, tipping her chin back, affecting a more poised posture (that is, more poised than usual; a feat in and of itself) on John's arm. "Shall we?"

John chuckles, "I'm sure it is. I guess I'm in the wrong business if I wanted to make a lot of money." His smile is broad as he looks at the woman, poising herself further. "I gotta be the luckiest man in California right about now," he says as he directs Bette to one of the patio tables, and pulls out a chair for her.

… fade out

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