Dave, open to Dylan
The party had been going for about half an hour, Dave circulating every ten minutes to connect with the lower drug runners, especially the ones who were worried about losing their jobs or getting a pay cut while Marijuana was gone. Calming their anxieties was difficult, but Dave could be a politician when he needed to be and most of them were settled within the first half an hour before Dave collapsed on a couch, working one of the last of Marijuana's brownies out of his pocket.
Peeling off the tinfoil, wary eyes scanned the shop for signs of trouble as he broke off tiny pieces, popping them into his mouth as his gaze turned toward the door, the mortal wondering if Dylan would show up. There was no music, even the gaming system was quiet and Dave just wanted to relax with the friend who, if he was honest with himself, was starting to become just a bit more than a friend in his eyes.
But he would worry about that later. Watching anxiously as Wes chatted with one of the female runners - chatted being a loose term because Wes barely did anything more than grunt - Dave just ate another bite of brownie as he felt the needles and little baggie figuratively burn a hole in his pocket. Later, later. He had responsibilities.