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rory & claire log @ the diner
Who: Rory & Claire
What: Pancakes
Where: Diner
When: Witching hour morning. 3-4 AM ish.
Warnings Violence. Blood probs. Cursing def. Pancakes gluttony.
[The date was set. Although less of a date and more of a he didn't fuckin' know what, but Rory was there. Early, if he was on time... as always. There was a time, back when he'd still been living and breathing, that he hadn't been able to be on time for anything. He'd been young then, stoned and constantly drunk and just skipping out on anything that remotely resembled responsibility. The mob had changed things. The mob ran on a consistent clock, so he'd become reliable. Death hadn't changed that. It's not like he had a whole hell of a lot else to do in this shithole of a town. There were no more souls to collect here, not as far as he knew or could scent out. He hadn't gotten any reassignment, and the whole demon-network static nothing of it all made him wonder if the quiet had something to do with whatever-the-fuck the Facility had put in his head. Rory wasn't lamenting the extended vacation. This town was small but there was still enough liquor and strippers to drown the days.
But now? The liquor and strippers were closing up shop. It was just that late, or just that early. The diner ran all night and all morning, so the hour was inconsequential. The moon was still up, but it's not like this town was running out of grease or batter any time soon. So to the diner it was.
He'd stamped out cigarettes underfoot like a breadcrumb trail, and he'd moonwalked in silverlight without succumbing to the dog. Rory hadn't been the dog for days now, and he didn't think it was getting any easier to skip nights, but it wasn't getting any more difficult either. Probably had something to do with the lack of soul-bargained blasphemies in town at the moment.
He was buzzed, and his body language was loose while he leaned against a rusted out Lincoln on the far side of the grease-stained parking lot. Dressed up in dark slacks, and down in a dark tee-shirt that might have started out as black once, but was now washed to a color that only barely qualified, Rory waited.]
What: Pancakes
Where: Diner
When: Witching hour morning. 3-4 AM ish.
Warnings Violence. Blood probs. Cursing def. Pancakes gluttony.
[The date was set. Although less of a date and more of a he didn't fuckin' know what, but Rory was there. Early, if he was on time... as always. There was a time, back when he'd still been living and breathing, that he hadn't been able to be on time for anything. He'd been young then, stoned and constantly drunk and just skipping out on anything that remotely resembled responsibility. The mob had changed things. The mob ran on a consistent clock, so he'd become reliable. Death hadn't changed that. It's not like he had a whole hell of a lot else to do in this shithole of a town. There were no more souls to collect here, not as far as he knew or could scent out. He hadn't gotten any reassignment, and the whole demon-network static nothing of it all made him wonder if the quiet had something to do with whatever-the-fuck the Facility had put in his head. Rory wasn't lamenting the extended vacation. This town was small but there was still enough liquor and strippers to drown the days.
But now? The liquor and strippers were closing up shop. It was just that late, or just that early. The diner ran all night and all morning, so the hour was inconsequential. The moon was still up, but it's not like this town was running out of grease or batter any time soon. So to the diner it was.
He'd stamped out cigarettes underfoot like a breadcrumb trail, and he'd moonwalked in silverlight without succumbing to the dog. Rory hadn't been the dog for days now, and he didn't think it was getting any easier to skip nights, but it wasn't getting any more difficult either. Probably had something to do with the lack of soul-bargained blasphemies in town at the moment.
He was buzzed, and his body language was loose while he leaned against a rusted out Lincoln on the far side of the grease-stained parking lot. Dressed up in dark slacks, and down in a dark tee-shirt that might have started out as black once, but was now washed to a color that only barely qualified, Rory waited.]