dahlia is a total (kayo) wrote in repose, @ 2016-07-01 15:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, dahlia haight, nick morgan |
[Log: Dahlia & Nick]
Who: Dahlia & Nick
What: Post-shift food, post-work clean-up.
Where: The (Good) Diner.
When: Shortly after this.
Warnings: Swears & mild injuries. Probs nothing else.
Late on a Friday night, the front door to the diner chimed. The air was thick with promise of storms, while the rest of the town slept.
More specifically--the town slept while the commune worked. Even after the bars closed. Yeah, the only decoration this diner could claim was it was the only place in town open later. Everyone knew by now the diner got a new owner, yeah, but so fucking what? They could rotate out the cooks and slap a new name on everything, but it'd still be the same old shit. Burgers, breakfast, coffee. Nothing special. Never changed. Just like everything else in this bullshit town. Dahlia missed real nightlife, in the city. She looked like city. The woman lumbering through the quiet diner looked lost here, and very far from home.
With that fresh black eye? Totally on brand, yeah, but really didn't help her blend in any better with the locals. Poppy-red flowering around the left, blossoming darkly wherever the swelling was settling in. It matched the bright ink swirling down her arms, and the remnants of blood washed away, some forgetful dots staining her shirt 'round the collar. Ugly and painful, but Dahlia didn't seem too bothered. Yet. Pain was rapidly approaching behind her senses, yeah, like a fucking freight train--but it was behind schedule, like it always was, thanks to that post-fight, post-adrenaline, post-whatever she wanted to call that thing winding down in the back of her head. It just made her blurry and itchy first--
Not to mention fucking starving--and she was already running on fumes, having worked her gatehouse shift on fuck all but coffee and temper. (And furtive nips from a flask, yeah, but nothing unusual about that.) Which, in retrospect, might not have helped matters tonight, especially when the threat advisory level around her was already a solid fuck off after yet another lifeline of hers disappeared. Dahlia was frankly surprised her shut-in of a friend--who she was pretty sure never left town even once in entire fucking decades that she knew her--was whole states away. More surprised Connie told her she was going anywhere at all, really, given she knew it was--in no small way--her fault.
So she needed some asshole john up in her face like she needed an angry swarm of bees, but here she was swinging her fists through it, anyway. Whatever. Sooner she ate, sooner she could crawl back into her trailer to drink from a bottle between her knees, until everything went quiet and numb again. As she often did. More often than not, lately.
Dahlia slumped onto a stool at the counter, tucking one boot under her knee. Running fingers through her hair, leaning over, trying to catch one of the menus just out of her impatient reach. Had to figure out whatever the fuck the special she always ordered was called now, or whatever. At least it would distract her from the urge to check her phone for the millionth time, even knowing there'd be nothing there.