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Oliver. King. (cyprian) wrote in bellumlogs,

The warmth of the diner was a relief, and Trenton slumped into his side of the booth with an aching wince that came to fruition when Isobel mentioned finding a room. Would they really have to stay here?

"I don't know how I feel about--" Gathering a paper menu from the window side of their table, Trenton regarded the diner's name and address embossed on the bottom of the sheet. "Chicago.."

Frowning, Trenton set the menu down and peered out the window -- the streetside spill of vibrant cabs and vintage couples arm in arm -- while Isobel ordered her coffee. Although Trenton's original tone had spoke of distaste for remaining in the city, by the time he'd recanted the name of the city itself, his intentions were something else entirely. He'd never been to Chicago, after all. And he'd certainly never partied like it was 1929.

Besides, who the fuck wanted to find a way back to Bellum? Not him, considering his most recent troubles. Chicago, although unfamiliar, was sounding really nice the longer he considered it.

"Uh, yeah--" Cleaving loose from his distraction, Trenton rounded that gut-tightening, charismatic simper on the waitress who was still standing by and waiting for his order. Her bored expression lightened considerably when Trenton spoke, he even got a smile out of her. "Coffee," which he hated, but what the hell, "And some cherry pie."

He rotated his grin when the waitress sashayed off, focusing on Isobel. "I'm sure we'll find a hotel of some kind around here."