WHO: Cook and Claire Bennet WHEN: After this WHERE: The park WHAT: Date night, Cook style RATING: Definitely high, for Cook's language if nothing else STATUS: In progress | Closed
ORDINARY BOYS, HAPPY KNOWING NOTHING HAPPY BEING NO ONE BUT THEMSELVES ORDINARY GIRLS, SUPERMARKET CLOTHES WHO THINK IT'S VERY CLEVER TO BE CRUEL TO YOU
So this was death? Cook was pretty sure he was dead. He just hope he'd done some fucking damage to that murdering cunt before he'd gone. No one killed his friend and got away with it. He was Cook. He was fucking Cook!
Still, he was here now. And, as it went, death didn't seem too bad. At least there were hot girls, even if there were a few self-righteous arseholes too. It could have been worse. Much worse. Cook had never really believed in God or Heaven but, if he had, he probably wouldn't have pictured the afterlife like this. This was... Well, it was kind of boring. He was hoping his phoenix would change all that, though.
She was a stunner - he could tell that just from the little pictures on the network. Unless she'd been using pictures of someone else and was actually a right munter, he'd definitely to be happy to give her one. Or two. Or three. Any way she wanted. As long as he was dead, he might as well enjoy himself. She'd said she was fire and he wanted to feel that heat. He wanted to feel something.
But she wanted a date. Well, he could do that. Or he could try. Although he wasn't buying a gateau again - not for anyone! That ship had sailed. His phoenix would have to make do with the bottle of vodka that rested in his lap. He'd already started it, of course. He'd like to have been gentlemanly and wait for his stunner to arrive before starting, but when there was vodka on offer, Cook wasn't one to refuse. He'd only just been able to find enough money around the house he'd woken up in to buy the bottle in the first place so he thought he deserved a few gulps for his troubles. He didn't have a fucking clue what he was going to eat from now on, assuming he even needed to eat now he was dead, but he'd figure it out somehow. He always did.
The swing that he was sitting on creaked slowly backwards and forwards as Cook lifted the lit cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. It was a warm afternoon and the sun was just beginning to dip towards the trees at the edge of the park. Not a bad night for a rendezvous, Cook thought.