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Who: Toby Randall and Rook
What: There's free food after-hours. There's two people who are wary of others. It's a goddamn party.
Where: Outside London Diner
When: Laate 22nd December.
The buildings that pressed up intimately either side of the alley, cradling it between them were too warm for cold night air; billows of condensation swirled along with the fog pumped out of next door's kitchen as London Diner's chef flipped off the stove and shut it all down for the night. The lights were dark, the windows blank as doll's eyes, dangling tinsel still faintly visible taped to the sills if a car passed close enough that the lights caught the artificial glitter of it. A door banged; heavy enough sound to be one of the fireproof, fire-escape types and the scraping, slow sound of someone dragging a stone (left for the purpose) to prop it open that followed confirmed it. A small figure, too narrow-shouldered to be the chef, appeared - plastic sack in hand that showed the mixed up contents of a day's worth of scraped plates. She was too small to really reach the large bins but the routine - haul a wooden crate over that had clearly stored fruit back when London Diner had ever served fruit and reach up on tip-toe to flip open the lid, a bending to grab the sack and heave it up - was clearly long-learned and perfected, even as it looked physically difficult. She was all tumbled blond hair (the ponytail clearly given up on) and dirty uniform and a tired look in blue eyes that was half joyful besides and when there was a clattering sound in the street beyond, her head turned, too sharp to be as sleepy as being so tired would warrant.
"Ruben?" Her voice was thin, anxious-thready and she was peering from her spot high up to see who it was skulking in alleys at four in the morning, and having no luck at all.
What: There's free food after-hours. There's two people who are wary of others. It's a goddamn party.
Where: Outside London Diner
When: Laate 22nd December.
The buildings that pressed up intimately either side of the alley, cradling it between them were too warm for cold night air; billows of condensation swirled along with the fog pumped out of next door's kitchen as London Diner's chef flipped off the stove and shut it all down for the night. The lights were dark, the windows blank as doll's eyes, dangling tinsel still faintly visible taped to the sills if a car passed close enough that the lights caught the artificial glitter of it. A door banged; heavy enough sound to be one of the fireproof, fire-escape types and the scraping, slow sound of someone dragging a stone (left for the purpose) to prop it open that followed confirmed it. A small figure, too narrow-shouldered to be the chef, appeared - plastic sack in hand that showed the mixed up contents of a day's worth of scraped plates. She was too small to really reach the large bins but the routine - haul a wooden crate over that had clearly stored fruit back when London Diner had ever served fruit and reach up on tip-toe to flip open the lid, a bending to grab the sack and heave it up - was clearly long-learned and perfected, even as it looked physically difficult. She was all tumbled blond hair (the ponytail clearly given up on) and dirty uniform and a tired look in blue eyes that was half joyful besides and when there was a clattering sound in the street beyond, her head turned, too sharp to be as sleepy as being so tired would warrant.
"Ruben?" Her voice was thin, anxious-thready and she was peering from her spot high up to see who it was skulking in alleys at four in the morning, and having no luck at all.